Line in the Sand
by 00AwkwardPenguin00
Summary: Wild West AU. Timothy McGee is a schoolteacher on the run from "No Irish Need Apply" policies back east. In the strange town of Roop's Point, he finds what it means to have a home worth protecting. McGiva. CaelumFelis is now 00AwkwardPenguin00!
1. Arrival

Line in the Sand  
>An NCIS Fanfic<br>By CaelumFelis  
>Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or anything associated with it<p>

**Author's Note: Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your outstanding patience, and welcome to the first chapter of _Line in the Sand._ If the summary didn't tell you, this is an Alternate Universe fic, taking place in a fictional Kansas town located on the actual Chisholm Trail cattle drive route. I have taken every precaution I possibly can (within reason, of course) to make the historical aspect of this fic as accurate as can be with the materials I have at my disposal, as well as in keeping the characters as true to their personalities and occupations on the show as I could. However, due to the nature of this fic, some aspects of a character may be impossible to maintain, and I have compensated accordingly. It should be noted that this fic is Timothy McGee-centric, and with two exceptions, every main or secondary human character in this fic has appeared on NCIS at least once in the series. Some of the secondary characters may seem a bit out of character, and this is intentional in some cases, due both to a lack of appearances from the character which would increase my knowledge of his or her personality and to the demands of the story. However, if you see an obvious mistake, please feel free to point it out to me, and I will correct it if at all possible to do so. Please be warned, this is an exceptionally long fic (at the time of this writing, it is currently three chapters and 62 pages long, with this chapter alone amounting to 27 pages), and it will at times move somewhat slowly. The pace is intentional- the Old West wasn't all stampedes and gunfights, y'know.**

**WARNING: This fic contains mentions of racism, physical/emotional/sexual abuse, and corporal punishment. America in the 1800's was very, very different from the America we know today, and this fic reflects that where appropriate. I mean absolutely no offense to anyone, however, if you do find yourself offended, feel free to stop reading at any point. I won't hold it against you, nor would I blame you, for some of the more common views of this era run extremely contrary to my own personal ones.**

**All of that being said, sit back, relax, and enjoy _Line in the Sand._**

**Sincerely, CaelumFelis**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter One<br>Arrival**_

_December 12, 1869  
>Newton, Kansas<em>

"One ticket to Ellsworth, please," Tim requested, studying the map next to the stagecoach ticket window. He knew Ellsworth was a pretty big cow town, hopefully they'd have some use for a schoolteacher, even if he was Irish.

"Round trip or one way?" The wrinkled old man on the other side of the counter asked.

"One way, please," Tim replied, muffling a cough. He'd picked up a nasty cold somewhere in Ohio, and hadn't been able to shake it. Over the past couple of days it had worsened, his coughs becoming deeper and more ragged, leaving his chest aching like he'd been sat on by a horse, and his fever worsening and sucking every bit of strength from his bones. Tim prayed that it was simply a very bad cold, but the dirty looks he got from passers-by made him wonder.

_Wouldn't it be just my luck to finally make it all the way out here only to get taken out by the damned consumption,_ Tim growled to himself, massaging his aching temples.

"That'll be ten dollars," the ticketmaster said blandly.

Tim grimaced. That was all the money he had left he'd be broke after this. He'd have to get a job immediately upon arriving in Ellsworth, and it probably wouldn't be teaching.

_That's if they even have jobs for Irishmen,_ Tim sighed to himself, handing over the coins. The ticketmaster handed over his ticket, and Tim nodded in thanks before sticking it between his teeth and picking up his rucksack and fiddle case with one hand and his library with the other. The old, worn crate groaned under the weight of all of the books, and Tim silently begged it to hold out until he could find a new crate. He shuffled over to hunker down under the building's overhang, sitting on his crate of books with his rucksack on his back and his fiddle on his lap. Feeling flushed and hot despite the nearly subzero temperatures, he crossed his arms over his fiddle case and laid down his head, telling himself he was simply resting his eyes.

He was startled awake the pounding of hooves on frozen ground and the crack of a whip in the air. Blinking bleary eyes, he realized that this was his stage, and hurriedly picked himself and his belongings up and joined the line. The driver scowled at him when he read the manifest, but Tim kept his head down and checked the cloth he'd tied over the top of his crate to protect his books. Finding it secure, he wordlessly helped to tie down the passengers' luggage, double and triple checking the knots without being asked. Satisfied, he climbed down and climbed into the stage, hunkering down in the corner as far from the rest of the passengers as he could get, gasping from the exertion. The other passengers, four women, a passel of children, and a couple of men, all scowled at him and moved away, taking the buffalo robes the stage provided for warmth with them. Tim sighed, and wrapped himself up tighter in his coat. Frankly, he was surprised he'd even been allowed to board, although considering that he'd paid for the ride, they couldn't very well turn him away simply for being sick.

The stage lurched into motion, and Tim felt his stomach turn. _Oh hell, not this too…_

Through the grace of G-d, Tim managed to keep the biscuits and melted snow he'd had for breakfast from making a reappearance, but it was a very near thing. He finally slipped into a restless sleep, the heat of his fever and the rocking of the stage preventing him from truly resting. He was kicked a few times, waking him up enough to realize he was moaning in his sleep, but not enough to rouse him completely. He was so _tired…_

And then it happened.

Tim awoke to a horrible pressure building in his chest, one he'd become intimately familiar with over the last few weeks of being sick. He tried taking small sips of air, hoping that the pressure would relieve itself, but instead it only grew worse.

_No_, he begged silently, eyeing the other passengers in panic, _no, not this, please…_

Something tickled the back of his throat, and suddenly he was coughing- great gasping, hacking coughs that set his chest on fire and caused his head to pound like a great bass drum. The world spun around him as he coughed, fighting desperately for breath, but he dimly felt the stage stop, and the door open, blasting him with a blessed wave of cold, clear air. Someone grabbed his arms, he was flying through the air, and landed with a weak thud in soft, drifted snow. He simply curled up where he lay, too weak and confused and frightened to try and fight back, as his rucksack, fiddle case, and crate of books were tossed down beside him.

The stage raced off into the rapidly fading afternoon light, leaving him alone on the side of the road, shivering with cold and fever chills, gasping for breath.

_C'mon, McGee, can't stay here all day,_ he thought, trying to catch his breath and corral his thoughts into a coherent sentence. He staggered to his feet, hefted his rucksack onto his back, tucked his box of books under one arm, and his fiddle case under the other. Once he was sure he had everything, he looked around, straining his exhausted eyes as he tried to see through the encroaching gloom. He thought he could see some lights in the distance, but he wasn't sure if they were real or just a figment of his fever-addled imagination.

Either way, lights meant civilization, which meant warmth, and food, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.

Deciding, he headed off towards the lights, hoping that he wasn't hallucinating.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

_Roop's Point, Kansas_

_SKG Ranch_

Tony patted Diane on the flank, deftly pulling the milk bucket out from under her while she was distracted with affection. The milking cow was as temperamental as her namesake, and he wouldn't put it past her to simply tip it over to keep him and Gibbs from having the milk. He poured the fresh milk into the butter canister for churning, hung the bucket back on its hook, grabbed a broom, and started sweeping, determined to make it back to the house before the next snowstorm hit. It really wouldn't do for him to get lost outside in a blizzard and freeze to death- Gibbs was always saying that he didn't want to train another foreman, but he knew it was because the older man couldn't stand to lose another family member. Tony was his adopted son, handpicked off of the orphan train when he was just fourteen by Gibbs and his fourth wife, Stephanie. Stephanie had wanted a child to mother, while Gibbs was simply looking for someone to help him on the ranch. Funny how it was Gibbs who had ended up bonding with the scrappy, sarcastic teenager- Stephanie had ended up hating his guts. She died of consumption a year later, and Gibbs had never remarried.

Tony finished sweeping, bundled up, and locked up the barn, whispering goodnight to all of the animals, as was his custom. The sun was setting, and the wind was picking up, so he held his lantern up as high as he could and hightailed it for the house. Since they were done with their work early, and hadn't yet received a call out from the town needing the Sheriff, maybe he could convince Gibbs to play checkers with him.

A loud bark was all the warning he got before a huge brown and tan dog barreled towards him and pounced, knocking Tony back into a snowbank with a yelp.

"Jethro! Damn it, dog, get off!" Tony laughed, fighting back as the dog attacked him with a flurry of hot, smelly licks.

In mid-wrestle Jethro stopped and looked up towards the dirt road that ran in front of the ranch, his ears and nose twitching. A low growl, and the dog was off like a shot, Tony scrambling along behind, hand on the butt of his gun.

He didn't have to run far, as he found Jethro sniffing and whining at a shallow lump in the snow only a few yards away. Tony grimaced the lump looked distinctly person-shaped.

He dropped to his knees and started brushing snow off of the lump, revealing a threadbare brown frock coat wrapped tightly around the thin, gaunt frame of a man, his lips and fingertips tinged blue from the cold, and his face flushed from fever and wind. Tony cursed and pressed two fingers against the pulse point in the man's neck, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt a thin, faint throb in the vein. The man was alive, but barely.

Tony draped the man's arms over his shoulders and hooked his hands behind his knees. The man's upper body came to rest against his back, and Tony winced as he felt the man's ribs through the thin, threadbare layers of clothes that hung loosely on his body. He slowly began slogging through the now knee high snow towards the main ranch house.

"Tony!" He could faintly hear Gibbs calling him, sounding annoyed, resigned, and worried all at the same time. Tony hefted the man higher up on his back and picked up the pace.

"Boss! We got company!" He answered. He'd scarcely finished speaking before Gibbs was beside him, frowning at the unconscious man.

"What happened?" He demanded.

"Jethro found him half buried in a snowbank near the road," Tony replied. "He's barely breathin', and he's got a fever hot enough to scorch the sun. I think he may've gotten kicked off the stage."

Gibbs grunted, and helped support Tony as he carried the unconscious man into the house. They settled him in the guest room, where the spare blankets and quilts were kept. Diane, Gibbs's second wife and the namesake of their milk cow, had been an obsessive quilter, so they had more quilts than they knew what to do with. Tony slowly built up the fire in the little Dutch oven in the corner of the room, warming the room up gradually so that the sudden temperature change didn't stop the frozen man's heart, while Gibbs stripped and dried the man, gently rubbing life back into his limbs.

"Skinny bastard," Gibbs commented gruffly, frowning at the man's gently protruding ribs and collarbones. Tony nodded in agreement. While he didn't have the same skeletal gauntness of someone who hadn't had a single bite in weeks, he still looked like he hadn't eaten anything substantial in a good amount of time.

"Tall, too," he added, noticing with some amusement that the man's feet were hanging off the end of the bed. Gibbs snorted and threw a second quilt over him, making sure that his poor feet were covered.

"Not much we can do for him tonight, besides keep him warm," Gibbs said. "First light tomorrow, ride into town and fetch Ducky. I want to know what this kid's got that got him kicked off a stage in the middle of the empty prairie."

"Yes Boss!" Tony replied. He turned to leave, but suddenly remembered that there was a stranger in their house, one that could wake up at any time and slit their throats. He hesitated in the doorway, until Gibbs glared at him.

"I'll take first watch," he growled. "Go get some sleep, son, you're gonna need it."

"Yes Boss!" Tony replied, grinning broadly, before striding down the hall to his own room.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Gibbs didn't really think that the baby-faced man knocked out in the bed in front of him was gonna be any trouble, but he never liked being caught off guard. He grabbed the chair from the corner and sat down next to the bed, taking out his knife and a piece of wood he'd been whittling. As he sliced bits and pieces off the wood, he studied the boy, taking in the fresh, unlined face, peaceful in sleep, and the ruffled chestnut hair, still damp from the snow. The boy's hands had been smooth, with the exception of the tips of his left fingers, and a small dip in the top of each middle finger, indicating that he didn't work, but wrote a lot, and possibly played an instrument. His feet, however, had been tough as shoe leather, and bloody, indicating that he walked a lot. A migrant? More like a vagrant, but his clothes, despite their incredible worn and cheapness, were not those of a thief.

To be perfectly honest, the boy struck him as someone who was simply trying to get a new start in life, and hadn't quite gotten there yet. There was a bone-deep weariness that surrounded him, even in sleep, suffocating him same as a noose. Gibbs recognized it from when he'd first met Tony, before the blasted kid had put on his mask and turned into a bitter, bullheaded clown. He recognized it from within himself, from a time before he'd come to Kansas and found the sky and the stars.

That weariness could possibly have something to do with the multitude of scars Gibbs had discovered while thawing the boy out. Gibbs knew a thing or two about scars, he himself had plenty. Work scars, war scars, some visible, some not, some accidental, some deliberate. Tony had scars too, only his were well hidden under a thick armor of sarcasm and bitter humor. But this boy… Gibbs had never seen so much visible cruelty written on a person's skin. Thick, deep gouges crisscrossed his back like threshed grain, shadows of bruises long since faded flitted across his skin, thin, ghost-like lines of old, deep cuts traced patterns in his flesh. A web of claw and bite marks twisted and turned down his left forearm. All of these spoke of a violent and terrifying past, something that made Gibbs's blood boil. He didn't cotton to punishing children with pain- that only served to make them hate the pain-giver more. No, there were so many simpler, easier ways to punish children for misbehavior, although looking at the boy in front of him, Gibbs had to wonder if even those would have been needed. He didn't believe for a second that the kid in front of him would have been capable of misbehaving.

A sudden shift in the bed in front of him brought Gibbs out of his musings, as an expression of confusion, followed instantly by terror, crossed the boy's sleeping face, and he wriggled weakly in an attempt to escape.

"_No,"_ he whispered plaintively, his voice a surprisingly sweet Irish lilt, hoarse and rough from coughing. _"No, Da, don't, please… Da, please… I'll be good… don't kill me, Da, please don't… I'll be good, Da, I promise… please don't kill me… Da, don't! DA!"_

Gibbs started as the boy's eyes flew open, fever-bright and terrified, and he began moaning in fear at something only he could see, thrashing weakly in a feeble attempt to get away. Gibbs leapt forward, clapping one hand down on the boy's sweat-slicked forehead, and gently pinning his hands down on his chest before he hurt himself or Gibbs.

The rancher's eyes widened as he felt the heat rolling off of the boy- they couldn't wait until sunup to get Ducky anymore. Unless something was done to cool the boy down immediately, he would be dead before first light.

"TONY!" He bellowed, gathering the boy in up in his arms. Feet pounded in the hallway before Tony raced through the door, pulling on his pants over his union suit.

"Here Boss!" He yelped, hurriedly buttoning up.

"Open that window, then get those neckerchiefs you left out in the lean-to yesterday and bring 'em here," Gibbs ordered, peeling back the quilts so that only a thin sheet remained on the bed. "Once you've done that, start fillin' up the washtub with snow and leave it in here to melt."

"On it, Boss!" Tony fairly leaped across the room and flung open the window, releasing a burst of cold air that flooded the room. The boy whimpered but stopped thrashing, relaxing against Gibbs, who pressed his hand against the boy's forehead again. The kid was already cooling down, hopefully the fever would break soon. He gently laid the boy back down again, drawing the sheet over him.

"'_m sorry, Da… try to do better… won't let you down… Da, please… Da…"_ The boy murmured.

"Easy, son, just rest now," Gibbs said, brushing back the boy's sweat-matted hair.

"Got the neckerchiefs," Tony announced, racing back through the door, a large pile of frozen stiff squares of cloth cupped in his hands. Gibbs grabbed one and worked it in his hands, warming it just enough for him to be able to fold it into a compress.

"Good, Tony, now hang 'em up on the windowsill and go get that snow," Gibbs said, placing the still half frozen compress on the boy's forehead. "I reckon we'll only need a bucket, now that the fever seems to have gone down again. Once you've done that, finish getting dressed and come back here."

"Yes Boss," Tony replied dutifully, and disappeared again.

The boy gave a soft sigh, and smiled. _"Sarah… so pretty… my little Fairy Princess… Looks just like you, Ma… miss you both… so much…" _He whispered.

He settled back into a fitful sleep, and Gibbs relaxed a bit, readjusting the compress on the boy's forehead and gently wiping away the fever-sweat with a second cloth. Chuckling, he thanked his lucky stars that Tony had forgotten to bring the washing in before the snowstorm the previous day, or else they wouldn't have had anything to cool the stranger down with.

Tony returned, fully dressed and lugging a huge bucket of fresh snow in with him. "Here's the snow you wanted, Boss," he said, placing the bucket down next to the chair Gibbs was sitting in. "Need anything else?"

"Put on some water for Willow Bark tea, then get over here and keep him cool," Gibbs said. "I'm gonna go fetch Ducky, if the fever gets any higher, we're gonna need his help."

"Papà, there's a damn blizzard outside!" Tony yelped. "Snow's already piled halfway up the door! You go out in that, you and Charger are gonna freeze before you get past the gate!"

Gibbs glanced out the window, and realized that he couldn't even see the front porch. The storm that had been blowing in as they finished the last of their chores was on top of them, and the snow was coming down in tubs.

The boy suddenly started coughing, huge, wet, hoarse coughs that made Gibbs wince just from listening to them. Tony flinched and backed away, absently touching his own chest. His own battle with the consumption that had claimed Stephanie had left his lungs weak and sensitive, and Ducky had warned them that he most likely wouldn't survive another illness like it.

But Gibbs didn't think the boy had consumption. Consumption was a slow killer, taking weeks to come on fully, and weeks more for the victim to either succumb or get better. Judging by where Tony had found him, footsteps from a major stage route, the boy had been well enough to be let onto the stage, but had been dumped suddenly, most likely when he began showing signs of real illness. Ducky would be able to confirm it, but Gibbs suspected that the boy had pneumonia. Not much better than consumption, but the odds were more in his favor, providing he had a strong constitution. And pneumonia came on quick, in a matter of days or hours, which meant that he could be well enough to get on a stage but quickly become ill enough to get dumped.

The coughing spell ended, and the boy fell back against the pillow, gasping and wheezing for breath, moaning weakly in pain, his lips tinged blue.

"Tony, gather up all the pillows and blankets in the house," Gibbs ordered quietly. "We need to sit him up a bit, it'll help him breathe. That tea ready yet?"

"Almost, Boss," Tony replied.

"Soon as it's ready, bring the pot and a cup in here and then put some coffee on," Gibbs said. "We're gonna need it."

"On it, Boss."

* * *

><p><em>December 15, 1869<br>Roop's Point, Kansas_

_SKG Ranch_

Something was different. Tim was warm, not hot with fever, but truly, comfortably warm. He was lying on something soft, and wrapped in something even softer. His chest was still sore, but he was breathing easier than he had in weeks.

Someone was talking. Two someones. Both men, one with an upper crust British accent, and the other with a low, soothing drawl.

Fighting a wave of exhaustion, Tim slowly forced his eyes open, squinting through the bright winter sunlight streaming in through a small window to his right and magnified by an equally sized mirror on the wall to his left. The room he was in was small, dominated by the bed he was lying in, although even that was small, leaving his feet propped up on a pillow sitting on a large chest. The quilt that covered him was made of patches in all different colors and patterns with no discernable design governing it, resulting in a dizzying kaleidoscope of cloth that gave Tim a headache just looking at it.

"Ah, welcome back to the land of the living, young man."

Tim jumped as a distinguished looking gentleman sporting the most outrageous bow tie he'd ever seen leaned over him, peering at him clinically through round, wire-framed spectacles. The man placed a cool, callused hand on his forehead, nodding approvingly, while Tim fought his instinct to flinch away from the touch. The gentleman must've seen his discomfort, as the rest of the examination went quickly.

"It seems you've bounced back rather well from one of the worst cases of pneumonia I've seen in a long time, lad," he said, smiling gently at him. "How do you feel?"

"Better question is, who are you?" The second man said from somewhere off to his right, and Tim turned his head to find a pair of icy blue eyes studying him intently from beneath a fiercely furrowed brow. Tim gulped, the expression on the man's chiseled visage usually precluded a furious beating when seen on his father's ruddy face.

"T-T-Timothy M-M-McGee, s-sir, s-s-schoolteacher," Tim stammered, flushing uncomfortably under the man's stare.

A silvery eyebrow rose quizzically. "Little young to be a teacher, ain't ya?"

"I'm t-t-twenty-two years old, s-sir," Tim whispered. "I've been t-t-teaching since b-b-before I w-w-went to c-c-college."

"Ah, a well educated man!" The doctor (for that was the only thing the bow-tied gentleman could be, Tim mused, seeing as he was listening to his heart with a stethoscope) crowed happily. "Say, my boy, where did you study? Judging by your accent, if I may assume, I would think the University of Dublin, or perhaps Church of Ireland College of Education, since you are a schoolteacher, as you said."

"H-Harvard C-College, s-sir," Tim replied.

The doctor's eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline. "My word, Mr. McGee, well done, well done indeed."

Even the silver haired stranger looked impressed, although the expression was soon replaced with suspicion. "Fancy schoolin' like that's expensive, gotta be pretty well off to afford it. People like that usually have connections, don't need to go lookin' for anything. What're you doin' way out here?"

Tim blushed again. "I got in on s-s-scholarship, s-sir, and p-p-paid the rest of the way m-m-myself," he answered. "Jobs for I-I-Irishmen in my p-p-profession have disappeared b-b-back East, s-sir, so I decided to try my l-l-luck out West." He blinked. "I'm s-s-sorry, I don't r-r-remember your n-n-names…"

"No apologies necessary, my lad, I'm afraid we've forgotten our manners," the doctor soothed, shooting a scathing look at the silver haired man. "I'm Dr. Donald Mallard, physician and occasionally coroner."

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs, rancher," the silver haired man grunted. "You're on my property, SKG Ranch. The nearest town is Roop's Point, 'bout four miles or so up the road. Where were ya headed, McGee?"

"Ellsworth, s-sir," Tim answered. "I'm s-s-sorry to put you up like t-t-this, Mr. Gibbs, I'll be on my w-w-way now." He attempted to sit up, but was rather forcefully pushed back down by a scowling Dr. Mallard.

"Now wait just a minute, young man," the old Brit said. "I already said yours was the worst case of pneumonia I'd seen in quite a long time, and your fever only just broke this morning. You're in no condition to be traveling, and besides, it's rather unlikely for a stagecoach to run this way in this weather. I'm afraid you'll be Jethro's guest for a while."

Tim grimaced. "I have n-n-nothing to r-r-repay either of you with for t-t-taking care of me," he whispered. "I s-s-spent the last of my m-m-money on that s-s-stage. I c-c-can't pay you b-b-back..." As suddenly as a candle being blown out, Tim was fast asleep again.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Whaddya think, Duck?" Gibbs asked quietly as Ducky quickly checked McGee's pulse.

"I think this poor lad has yet to grasp the concept of charity," Ducky replied. "He also has quite a long ways to go before he's fit to work. Go easy on him, Jethro, it appears that he hasn't had much kindness in his life. You might need to temper your usual gruffness around him, at least for a while."

"What about all of those scars?"

"All childhood acquisitions, if I had to wager a guess," Ducky answered. "I'd imagine his primary caretaker was quite heavy-handed in regards to discipline."

"Discipline? Ducky, the kid's nearly had the skin flayed off his back so many times I'm surprised he can move at all!" Gibbs snarled. "That ain't discipline, that's torture! And you can't tell me that the kid deserved it, no matter what he may have done as a child." Gibbs leapt to his feet and prowled over to the window, now closed against the chill of the frozen tundra around them.

"Jethro, we all know that you don't condone corporal punishment, but even you must admit that you are rather advanced in your way of thinking on the matter," Ducky reminded him quietly. "It's his father's right to punish his son in the manner of his choosing, although I will agree with you that the boy hardly deserved such overt brutality. However, that is in the past. What we must focus on now is keeping young Timothy from exerting himself as he recovers. Complete bed rest for the next week, and no traveling for the next month and a half." Ducky finished his exam and packed up his bag. "Now, I see that Anthony has cleared up a path to the barn, so I will take my leave of you, Jethro." He shot Gibbs a mischievous look better suited for a rascally boy than a prim and proper English doctor. "I'll talk to the mayor on Monday about that open teaching position in town. Poor Robert simply refuses to retire, even after that nasty bout with ague…" Shaking his head, Ducky tutted and strode out of the room, leaving Gibbs to sit quietly next to his guest's bedside, absently stroking the kid's chestnut fringe and wondering.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When Tim awoke again, he found himself staring into a pair of distinctly canine brown eyes. He jerked back, the sounds of a dog's insane growls and flesh tearing under sharp teeth and claws filling his ears and the sight of flashing teeth and splattering blood filling his vision. He choked back a scream and weakly tried to wriggle away before the monster took another chunk out of him.

"Jethro, down! Down!" An unfamiliar voice commanded, and the huge brown and tan dog whined piteously but obeyed, revealing a lean, weather-beaten young man only a few years older than Tim. The stranger studied him intently with greenish hazel eyes before giving him an apologetic smile.

"Sorry about that, Jethro don't quite get the whole "personal space" thing," he said, his barely accented tone light as air. "He don't hurt a fly though, I promise. Name's Tony DiNozzo. I'm Gibbs's foreman."

Tim swallowed dryly, wishing he could get something to drink. "Tim," he rasped. "Tim McGee."

"The Harvard-educated schoolteacher," Tony said, nodding. "Ducky was really impressed. He's finally got someone to debate with. Lord knows the rest of us ain't smart enough to put up a challenge for him."

"Ducky?" Tim whispered.

"Dr. Mallard," Tony replied with a grin. "Everyone calls him Ducky, he says it's a name from his schooldays in England. You got any dandy nicknames from Harvard, McGee?"

_Nicknames? Let's see… there's "Dogan", "Paddy", "White Nigger", "Fresh Off the Boat"… should I go on?_ Tim thought bitterly, remembering the gangs of boys that would follow him home from school every day until he was sixteen.

Tony must've seen the expression on his face, because he blanched. "Sorry, McGee, don't mean it like that," he said apologetically. Then he grinned. "I'll just have to give ya one then, McGoo!"

"_McGoo?_" Tim exclaimed, blinking in shock. _What on earth?_

"Tony!"

Both men flinched at the call, and their heads whipped around in tandem to find Gibbs standing in the doorway, arms crossed and glowering.

"Oh hey, Boss, me and Mr. McGee was just gettin' 'quainted," Tony said brightly, shooting the rancher a toothy grin that reminded Tim of a mischievous little boy.

Gibbs simply stared, and Tony squirmed in his chair. Tim sank down into his blankets and pillows and watched carefully, in case Gibbs's anger turned on him.

"You done with the path to the barn?" Gibbs asked, his tone bland, but lined with steel.

Tony nodded, his grin growing. "And from the barn to the road, wide enough for the wagon. Even dug up and thawed out Mr. McGee's belongings, including the fiddle. You know you got a whole library's worth of the most boring books I ever laid eyes on? Not a single novel in the bunch. Man should be shot for having a library like that."

Tim grimaced and sunk down further, expecting more insults and perhaps a cuff or two. But glancing at Tony, he realized that the older man's hazel green eyes were sparkling with good humor, his smirk gently teasing. He lowered the blankets slightly, and found Gibbs's icy blue eyes on him, gently curious, and a touch even… _concerned?_

"What McGee reads is his business, Tony," Gibbs rumbled.

"Yes, Boss." Tony's grin slipped off of his face, leaving him staring sullenly at the floorboards.

"Hey, the mutt needs to go out before he destroys the rug again," Gibbs said suddenly. "And the horses are probably getting stir-crazy. Go take care of it."

The grin was back, and brighter than ever. "On it, Boss!" Tony leaped to his feet, clapping Tim gently on the shoulder (Tim tried not to flinch but failed). "C'mon, Jethro, let's go." The tall, older man raced out of the room, the dog barking at his heels.

Tim sighed in relief as the dog left, and let himself relax back into the cocoon of pillows and blankets he was wrapped in.

"Don't like dogs?"

Tim jumped at the sudden voice, and his eyes snapped to the rancher now easing himself into the chair Tony had just vacated.

"G-Got attacked, s-sir, when I-I was t-t-twelve," Tim whispered. "My f-f-father debated for a w-w-week with the n-n-neighborhood men, s-sir, as to w-w-whether I s-s-should be p-p-put d-d-down for r-r-rabies." He didn't care to say which side his father was on. The simple fact that he was alive now proved that the old man had lost.

"Don't call me "sir"," Gibbs growled. "I work for a living. It's Gibbs."

"A-Aye, s-sir-er, Gibbs," Tim murmured, feeling his face flush.

Gibbs snorted, then peered at him thoughtfully. "You still lookin' to head to Ellsworth?"

"As s-s-soon as I am a-a-able to travel, s-er, Gibbs," Tim replied, feeling thoroughly awkward for not addressing his host more formally, as he'd been taught.

"Well, that won't be for a while, seeing as Ducky's forbidden you to travel for the next month."

Tim felt his heart sink. _A month? I can't stay here that long! I haven't any money!_

Gibbs tossed a ledger onto his bed, followed by a corked inkbottle and a gorgeous wooden dip pen that nearly made Tim drool just looking at it.

"How good are you with numbers?" Gibbs asked. Tim looked up and stared at him, trying to figure out what it was the man wanted. He sounded like he was offering him a job, but that couldn't be… he was sick, and besides, he was Irish. No one wanted to hire Irish folk, wasn't what all those "No Irish Need Apply" signs back east were for?

"I-I w-would s-say I-I'm b-better th-than a-average, s-er, Gibbs," Tim said hesitantly.

"I need you to try and make sense of these figures," Gibbs said, pointing to the ledger. "Tony caught our last bookkeeper doin' something he shouldn't, and I want to make sure he wasn't screwing us over financially as well."

Tim picked up the ledger, his hands shaking slightly. "W-W-What exactly did Mr. D-DiNozzo catch h-him doing?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"A-A-Actually, it does, s er, Gibbs," Tim replied. "I-I-It would mean t-that I have to l-l-look for different p-patterns. For instance, if your bookkeeper was simply g-greedy, the amounts he had t-taken would be very s-small and grow steadily, o-over a very long period of time, for f-fear of being caught. However, if he was u-using the money to feed some sort of h-habit, the amounts taken w-would be erratic, as would the dates a-at which he took them. I-I will also n-need to see one of your e-earlier account books, one this m-man had not worked on, t-to compare it t-to."

Gibbs studied him intently, and Tim fought the urge to hide from the intense blue gaze. Finally, the rancher seemed to nod to himself, and pointed to the ledger Tim held in his hands.

"Caught him trying to force himself on the proprietress of the town saloon," he growled. "Both she and the apothecary had complained of unwanted advances towards them by him, but it wasn't until Tony caught him trying to force himself on the proprietress that we truly investigated further. Turns out the bastard had forced himself on twenty other women in the previous town he'd resided in, and was wanted for multiple counts of rape."

Tim nodded, determined not to flinch at the raw fury in the man's tone and expression. "Greed then, if he was that obsessed with power and control," he murmured.

"How do you figure?"

Tim blinked in surprise. The man actually sounded curious, like he truly wanted to hear what Tim thought.

"R-R-Rape isn't a-about s-s-sex, s er, Gibbs," Tim stammered. "I-I-It's a-about u-using a-an e-extremely i-i-intimate and p-p-private a-act as a w-way to c-control the v-v-victim, t-through the t-terror and p-pain of the e-e-experience. Y-Your b-bookkeeper w-was p-probably v-very c-charming, v-very c-c-charismatic, a-and u-used to g-getting w-what h-he w-wanted. T-The f-f-fact t-that h-he g-got a-away s-so m-many t-times p-proves t-that h-he w-was s-smart, but h-had g-gotten s-sloppy t-the m-more c-comfortable h-he b-became, w-which l-led t-to h-his c-capture. H-He i-is o-obsessed w-with p-p-power, a-and i-in t-this c-country, t-the m-more m-money o-one h-has, t-the m-more p-powerful o-one b-becomes. H-he w-was p-probably e-embezzling f-from h-his p-previous e-employer, a-and u-using t-the s-stolen f-funds t-to t-try a-and i-impress t-the l-ladies h-he e-eventually r-r-raped. I-I-I i-imagine t-that h-he b-became q-quite a-angry w-when t-they s-spurned h-his a-advances."

"I thought he wasn't after sex," Gibbs protested, frowning in concentration.

"H-He w-wasn't, h-he w-wanted t-to c-control t-the w-women h-he w-was c-courting," Tim corrected. "I-I-I e-expect h-he t-thought h-himself i-irresistable, a-and f-f-firmly b-believed t-that e-everyone s-should b-believe i-it a-as w-well. W-When h-he w-was s-s-spurned, h-he p-probably t-took i-it a-as a p-personal o-offense a-and d-decided t-that h-he s-should s-show t-them t-the e-e-error o-of t-their w-w-ways."

Gibbs nodded, looking rather impressed. However, his eyes suddenly narrowed, and he glared at Tim. "I'm almost afraid to ask how you know all this stuff, McGee."

Tim gulped. "I-I-I t-took a c-course i-in p-psychology a-at H-Harvard, j-just o-out o-of c-c-curiosity," he stammered, blushing deeply. "I-I-I w-wasn't v-very g-good a-at i-it, I-I-I'm m-more m-mathematically a-and s-scientifically i-inclined, b-but it w-was i-interesting, s-seeing h-how t-the m-mind w-was t-thought t-to w-work."

Gibbs gave a skeptical snort, but seemed mollified. "Take a look, I'll get you one of our earlier ledgers. Don't stress yourself, or Ducky'll have my hide."

Tim smiled tentatively, and Gibbs smirked back as he stood and strode out the door. Picking up the ledger, Tim turned to the first page and, for the first time since leaving his last town of residence, felt himself start to relax. The numbers in front of him, written in a bold script so perfectly formed that they reeked of self-importance and spite, settled him in a way that people and conversation couldn't. He read the entire ledger cover to cover, familiarizing himself with the erroneous information enough so that he could recall it at a moment's notice. He didn't hear Gibbs return until another ledger was tossed onto the bed to land between his ankles.

"That's the accountings from the season before I hired that bastard," the rancher growled.

"Thank you," Tim replied, barely looking up from the doctored ledger. "Would you fetch my rucksack, please?"

A second later, Tim's only very slightly damp bag was deposited next to him on the bed, and Tim dug into it fiercely, pulling out the bottle of red colored ink he kept for grading papers and a thick notepad about the length and width of his hand. He placed both inkbottles on the small table next to his bed, tucked the pen behind his ear, and dumped the rucksack on the floor. He grabbed the second ledger, but didn't open it, instead placing the two books side by side in front of him, and grabbing the bottle of black ink and the notepad.

"Would you mind answering a question or two?" He asked, turning back to Gibbs, who was staring at him with a puzzling expression of incredulity and amusement on his face.

"Sure," Gibbs grunted, resuming his seat next to Tim's bed.

"When exactly did you hire this bookkeeper?"

"Last spring, I s'pose, calving season," Gibbs answered. "I needed help counting all the new calves, and any steer ready to be shipped up to Abilene. So 'round April or May."

Tim very carefully worked the cork out of the top of the inkbottle, dipped his pen, and jotted this information down.

It only took ten minutes to finish his questions and write down the answers, but by the end of it, Tim was exhausted, and his hand was shaking too much to write. So he tucked his pen back behind his ear, corked the inkbottle, and buried his nose in the undoctored ledger, not even registering Gibbs slipping out of the room like a shadow.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Howdy, McGenius, chowtime!" Tony crowed, entering the guest room with a pot of tea and a tin cup in one hand and a bowl of thick stew in the other. McGee was sitting up in bed, an inkbottle in one hand and a pen in the other, his nose buried in a ledger that was propped up on his knees. The man was covered in red ink it stained his fingers, his nightshirt, even his nose and cheeks and forehead, where he'd absently scratched itches with stained fingers. If Tony hadn't known better, he'd've thought the younger man was drawing blood. To be honest, Tony was a little leery about how fiercely McGee had attacked the accounts book Gibbs had given him, it seemed as though the young Irishman preferred paper and ink and numbers to real flesh and blood people. He'd tried all day to get McGee to put the book down and talk, but it was as though he were talking to a wall. Even Gibbs on a bad day was more responsive than McGee when his nose was stuck in that book.

True to form, McGee didn't even flinch at his entrance. Tony sighed, and put the bowl and pot and cup down on the bedside table. "Hey, McInky, time to eat," he repeated, settling in the chair next to the bed. McGee didn't respond, simply dipped his pen again and scribbled something on the page, muttering to himself in what Tony could only assume was Irish.

_Huh,_ Tony thought, watching him leave another inky mark on his temple, _so he talks to himself in the mother tongue, as well. Well I'll be darned._

"Ehi, McGee! Il tuo è stufato di andare a prendere freddo!" Tony snapped, trying to remember how his birth grandmother scolded. It did the trick, as McGee jumped and stared at him incredulously.

"Was that Italian?" He asked, the first words he'd spoken to Tony since waking up that morning.

"In effetti lo è!" Tony announced pompously, glad to have finally gotten a reaction from the younger man. "Ben fatto! Ora, hai intenzione di mangiare questa zuppa, oppure posso avere vero? Non ho ricevuto alcun cena di oggi, e la cena non è per _ore_."

McGee scowled at him. "Níl a fhios agam cad a bhfuil tú ag caint faoi," he said, sticking the pen behind his ear.

Tony grinned and grabbed the bowl. "Zuppa," he said, stirring the stew around with the spoon. "Mangiare!" He loaded up the spoon and popped it into his own mouth, smirking mischievously.

"Hey!" McGee yelled. He grabbed the bowl and spoon away from Tony and started shoveling stew into his mouth.

"Hey, easy there, kid! You're gonna make yourself sick!" Tony warned, reaching to place a hand on McGee's shoulder to calm him down. To his shock, McGee actually snarled at him and pulled the bowl closer to him, as though he was afraid that Tony was going to take it away. He did slow down, however, and Tony sat back and watched him worriedly.

Damn it, the kid reminded him of himself when Gibbs had first picked him up. He'd already been running around the streets of New York City for two years before being put on the orphan train, and was nearly as wild as a feral dog. He protected his food and very meager belongings with his life, and growled at anyone who came too close. It had taken Gibbs's unique brand of tough, Marine style love to get him to relax and realize that he was safe, that he could eat as much as he wanted without having to fight tooth and nail to protect it. It had taken him a year and a half to stop hoarding food in his wardrobe, and to stop sleeping with a knife under his bed. Even now he still had a tiny, nagging worry that whenever Gibbs went off to go after stray animals or stray people, he wouldn't be coming back. That he'd get hurt or killed, or was simply tired of him, and leave him alone again. And even though he was an adult now, and better equipped to handle being on his own again, he really, really didn't want to be totally alone in the world anymore.

McGee was nearly asleep by the time he finished the stew, and could barely keep his eyes open to gulp down the tea. Tony had to help him hold the cup, until the kid actually fell asleep mid-swallow, and the older man carefully took the cup away and gently rubbed the kid's throat to make him finish swallowing, the way he'd seen Gibbs do when Jethro was sick, so that he didn't choke.

"Ducky's gonna be steamed at you, McSickly," he murmured, carefully clearing away the inkwells and ledgers and notebook and pen and placing them on the bedside table. He tucked the quilt a bit more snugly around the younger man, and turned down the flame of the kerosene lamp bolted to the wall above the bed, until the light was no more than a pinprick. He grabbed the empty bowl and spoon and silently slipped out of the room.

"You're lucky I ain't the jealous type, McNeedy," Tony muttered as he walked down the hall to the main room of the house. "Gibbs's gonna have his work cut out for him with you, and he ain't gonna let you out of his sight until he straightens you out."

* * *

><p><em>December 23, 1869<br>Roop's Point, Kansas_

_Gibbs's Mercantile_

Jackson Gibbs looked up and grinned when his adopted grandson blew into his general store, bringing the cold wind and snow from outside with him.

"Tony-boy!" He crowed, stepping out from behind the counter and enveloping the boy in a huge bear hug. "How you doin', Bubba? Not driving Leroy beserk, I hope?"

"I'm behaving, Gramps, I promise!" Tony laughed. "And speaking of the boss, he wanted to let you know that we ain't gonna be in town for Christmas this year."

Jack blinked. This was strange Leroy and Tony had always come to Ducky's famous Christmas Dinner, ever since Leroy had adopted the boy twelve years ago. Ducky's annual feast was a town tradition- Ducky always provided the fowl, but every household in town brought an item with them to supplement. The boys hadn't missed a single year since Tony arrived- the kid hadn't allowed it, and Leroy loved the boy too much to say no.

"Well, son, I'm sorry to hear that," Jack replied, trying not to look too disappointed. "What's got you boys homebound this year?"

"Got a guest who ain't really up to bein' up and about," Tony said. "Boss don't wanna leave him all on his lonesome, and on Christmas of all days. He don't seem to got any family who want him around, and he's just a kid."

Jack nodded, an idea forming in his head. Tony must've seen it, because he gave the old shopkeeper a glare.

"I know what you're thinkin', Gramps," he growled. "You ain't movin' Ducky's feast to the ranch. Kid barely handles me and the boss bein' on the other side of the room from him, we ain't droppin' him in the middle of that mob. You wanna meet him, you come by yourself, y'hear? And make sure everybody else knows that too."

Jack studied his adopted grandson carefully. The boy's hazel green eyes were narrowed, the green and gold flecks in them flashing angrily. His fists were balled, his arms held out from his sides slightly, his booted feet placed shoulder width apart. Everything about him screamed threat, but Jack had seen that stance before. Of course, back then Tony had been half his current height and a third of his current weight, with a small girl and a mongrel pup at his feet behind him, but it was the same thing, ultimately. Something was poking his boy's protective instinct, and to try and force his own way would only make Tony lash out.

"I hear you, kid," Jack replied quietly. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you boys ain't disturbed without Leroy's say-so."

Instantly Tony's stance relaxed, and he grinned broadly at Jack. "Thanks, Gramps. That means a lot to us. Maybe we see y'all for Easter."

"I'm holdin' ya to that, boy," Jack growled playfully. "Now get on with you, you're scaring the customers away."

"What customers?" Tony scoffed, glancing around the empty store. "It's ten below outside and snowing. Everybody's at home, stayin' warm."

"Ah, be off with you, boy!" Jack yelled halfheartedly, aiming a playful kick in the pants at his adopted grandson. Tony laughed, pulled his duster tighter around him, and ducked back outside.

_Hmm, I wonder if Ducky knows anything about Leroy's guest,_ Jack mused, eyeing the worsening snowstorm through the front windows of his store.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

_David's Saloon_

Ziva looked up as the door to her saloon opened, revealing a shivering, snow-covered Tony DiNozzo.

"Hey Ziva, what've you got that's hot? It's damned cold out there!" He called as he brushed, patted, and stomped the snow from his person.

Ziva grinned and called back, "Would that be an order of hot apple cider for you, Deputy DiNozzo?"

"Add a shot of whiskey and you've got a deal, Miss David," he replied, smirking hopefully.

"Are you not on duty, Deputy?" Ziva asked suspiciously, eyeing the small silver star pinned to Tony's duster lapel. She filled a kettle with cider and placed it on a cooler part of the small stove range behind the bar to heat.

"Zeee-vah, it's only one shot!" Tony whined, sitting down at the bar and placing his hat down beside him. "I'll barely feel it!"

"I am not going to get in trouble with Gibbs if he hears you have been drinking on the job, Tony," Ziva scowled. "It is the cider straight, or you can go right back outside again."

"Fine, but you're losin' profit, Zi," Tony sighed. "Hey, Boss wanted me to ask you if you'd want to come over for dinner Christmas Day, if you're not already goin' over to Ducky's. We're stayin' at the ranch this year, but neither of us can cook worth spit. We'd be much obliged if you'd whip up a nice little dinner for the three of us and a guest."

Ziva did not answer, busying herself with pouring out the drink into a clay mug, and refilling a few others' drinks as well. She was honestly stunned by the offer. It was exceedingly rare for anyone to be invited to SKG Ranch for any reason, much less for a holiday. Sherriff Gibbs and Deputy DiNozzo always came to Ducky's for Christmas Dinner, and though she personally did not celebrate the holiday, she had not missed the event since she had arrived in Roop's Point six years ago. She wondered what Ducky would say about her missing this year.

"I had already made plans to attend Ducky's Christmas Dinner, but perhaps I could stop by beforehand and whip something up for the two of you and your guest," she said slowly. "Would that be acceptable?"

"That'd be great, thanks, Zi," Tony said, grinning.

"Who is your guest?" Ziva asked, gathering empty glasses from a recently vacated table.

"Some kid from back East, got tossed off the stage in front of the ranch house 'cause he came down with pneumonia," Tony replied, taking a long swig of his cider and wincing as the hot liquid burned his throat. "Schoolteacher, name of McGee. Probably first or second generation off the boat, since he's still got the mother tongue."

Ziva nodded from where she was washing out glasses. She was a first generation immigrant herself, having arrived in America from Palestine when she was nineteen. Tony was a first generation immigrant as well, although judging by what she, Abby, and Jimmy had been able to get out of him the few times they had managed to get him drunk enough to answer questions, he had arrived in America at a very young age.

"McGee… that is an Irish name, is it not?" She asked.

"Don't get much more Irish than that," Tony confirmed, nodding. "I reckon that's why he ended up out here in the middle of nowhere, y'know? All those "No Irish" signs back East that Ducky's been ranting about the last few months. Kid really seems to have taken that crap to heart."

Ziva nodded sadly. She had seen the signs that Tony was talking about herself, as she had traveled west from New York to Kansas when she had first arrived.

"TONY!"

Ziva winced as her front door slammed open and a black and red blur raced inside and attached itself to Tony, who promptly choked on his cider.

"TonyTonyTonyTonyTony! I haven't seen you in days! Jack said you were here!" Abby Scuito, town apothecary/midwife, shrieked, hugging Tony around the neck and jumping up and down. "How about all this snow, huh? Did you and Gibbs get snowed in? Looks like we're definitely gonna have a white Christmas! Are you coming to Ducky's Christmas Dinner? What am I saying, of course you're coming! You always come! Oh I can't wait, it's gonna be so delicious and fun-"

"Abbs, need to breathe!" Tony wheezed, removing Abby's hands from his neck. "And sorry, but Gibbs and me ain't comin' this year."

"What? Why not?" Abby whined, latching on to his arm.

"Don't matter why not, Abbs," Tony growled. "Boss wants us homebound this year, so that's what we do. And no, you ain't draggin' everyone out our way, 'cause we're just gonna send y'all right back. You want to come visit, you come by yourself, y'hear?"

"Whhhyyyy?" Abby whined again. Ziva's lip curled slightly- she could not stand it when Abby decided to be childish.

"Don't matter, Abbs, so stop asking," Tony said shortly. "I best be gettin' back to the office. Thanks for the cider, Zi." He stood, jammed his Stetson onto his head, and wrapped his duster tightly around him before he swept out the door.

"He's hiding something," Abby growled, hands on her hips. "I'm gonna go see Gibbs."

Ziva watched silently as Abby wrapped her cloak tightly around her and raced out, slamming the door shut behind her.

"_Adonai Eloheinu, tan li s'blanot_," she muttered, collecting Tony's empty mug and wiping down the bar.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

_SKG Ranch_

Tim reclined comfortably on the chaise lounge in the large main room of the ranch house, nose buried in a novel he had found in the bookshelf behind him. His week-long period of bed rest was over, and Ducky had deigned to allow him short trips around the house. Considering the fact that he was exhausted just by slowly walking from the guest room he was sleeping in to the chaise in the main room, Tim knew he had a long way to go until he was completely healthy again, but simply being allowed to be up and about was glorious. He had started to become irreparably bored stuck in just his guest room, having finished sorting out the ledgers Gibbs had given him days ago. Gibbs, possibly seeing his impending boredom, had given him free access to his personal library, a large bookshelf placed against the wall in the front of the main room, next to a large window overlooking the porch and the front of the property. Tim was positive that on a clear summer day, one would be able to see for miles out that window, but right now, with snow piled almost to the top of the windows, he couldn't see anything, and so contented himself with the novel he had chosen, _In Search of the Castaways_ by Jules Verne. He loved Verne's novels, and had been delighted to find this latest work from his favorite author in the library of a simple rancher.

"Likin' that book?"

Tim jumped and looked up to find Gibbs seated in front of the fireplace, whittling away at a small piece of wood with a small knife.

"I-I a-am, s er, Gibbs," Tim mumbled. "I-It's v-very i-i-interesting. I-I l-like M-Mr. V-Verne's n-n-novels q-quite a l-lot."

"Got that for Tony last year, thought he'd like the adventure," Gibbs continued, smirking. "Forgot that Tony's not much of a reader, and so the book's been sittin' on the shelf for the last year, waitin' to be taken to the library in town. Glad someone's enjoyin' it."

Tim nodded politely, although his mind only caught on to one word: _library_.

_A library? Here? In the middle of nowhere?_ His thoughts tumbled over and over themselves like water over falls, and his excitement must've shown on his face, because Gibbs laughed out loud.

"What're you thinkin' 'bout, McGee?" He asked, blue eyes dancing. "I've seen that look before- Tony always gets it when talkin' bout some girl he's seen, or whenever he gets back from the theater in Ellsworth. Spit it out, son, so I can go back to my wood."

Tim couldn't help himself- blushing furiously, he divulged everything about his love for books and his desire to see this town's library. He half expected Gibbs to growl at him impatiently to shut up, as several of his classmates at Harvard had, or even to come up and cuff him hard on the back of the head, as they and some of his professors had done as well, but the gruff old rancher simply listened quietly, nodding politely every so often, his expression one of patient forbearance.

Tim's mouth snapped shut when he finished his monologue, and he waited nervously for Gibbs's reaction, hiding slightly behind his book.

"Ducky's gotta have another look at ya, and all this snow's gotta go away, but I reckon we can swing a trip into town for ya soon, McGee."

Tim blinked, and peeked over the top of his book to see Gibbs grinning at him. The younger man just stared back, hardly daring to believe his ears. This fierce, gruff, tough old rancher was willing to take him to a library? A real library? Tim hadn't set foot in a real public library in over a year and a half, as he began to look more and more like a vagabond as his funds dried up from lack of work.

Speaking of which…

Tim marked his place and put the book down on the shelf behind him. Gathering the thick quilt he was wrapped in around him like a cape, he carefully stood and walked slowly over to the chairs gathered by the fire, sitting in front of Gibbs, who eyed him curiously.

"I d-don't think I e-ever th-th-thanked you for e-everything you and Tony have d-d-done f-for me," he said quietly. "I d-don't think I'll e-e-ever be a-able t-t-to. Y-you and T-Tony have s-shown me m-more k-k-kindness in the l-last week t-than I-I've seen in… in m-my entire l-life. I-If there is a-anything I c-can do to r-r-repay you, you o-only need t-to ask. I-I owe y-you my l-l-life, b-both you a-and Tony."

Fighting every instinct in his body, he kept his gaze on Gibbs's icy blue eyes as the older man thought.

"Why were you on your way to Ellsworth, McGee?" He asked suddenly, studying him intently.

Tim sighed. "I h-had hoped t-to f-find work, i-if anyone w-w-would hire an I-I-Irishman," he murmured. "W-with Ellsworth b-being such a l-l-large town, I-I had h-h-hoped to f-find a p-person who w-would, at the v-very least, d-disregard the c-common feelings a-aimed t-towards my f-folk and be w-willing to h-hire me."

"What are you running from? What "common feelings" are preventing you from getting a job?" Gibbs asked, looking very confused. Tim returned his expression.

"I'm I-Irish, s er, Gibbs," he replied slowly, wondering. "E-Everyone h-hates u-us, b-because w-we t-take j-jobs f-from n-native b-born A-A-Americans. I-I c-can't c-count h-how m-many t-times I-I've i-interviewed f-for a-a j-job a-and b-been t-turned a-away s-simply b-because o-of m-my a-accent. I-It d-doesn't m-matter t-that I-I h-have a-a t-teaching d-degree f-from H-Harvard, I-I'm s-still a-a s-second c-class c-citizen, a-and t-too s-stupid t-to u-understand h-how m-much p-people l-look d-down o-on m-me." He knew that his tone had turned bitter, but he didn't care. Talking to Gibbs's was like talking to a favorite portrait- calm, unassuming, and just _there._

"What if I told you that there was a teaching position available here in Roop's Point?"

Tim blinked and stared at Gibbs in shock.

"Old Man Davis is the current schoolteacher, but he's past retirement age," Gibbs continued. "However, he can't retire until he has a replacement lined up. Davis is the only trained schoolteacher in town, and he refuses to retire until he's sure of the person who's gonna take his place. The Mayor was getting ready to put an ad in various papers back East, but if you're lookin' for work, I'm pretty sure that Davis and the Mayor will be fine with you takin' over."

"Y-Y-You m-m-mean i-it?" Tim stammered, twisting the quilt in his hands. "T-They w-w-won't m-mind an I-I-Irishman t-teaching t-the t-t-town's ch-children? T-The p-p-parents w-w-won't m-mind?"

Gibbs sighed, and gently placed a hand on Tim's shoulder, ignoring the younger man's flinch. "McGee, I can personally vouch for Mayor Leon Vance's feelings. The man is this town's first black mayor, and he's the last person to be accused of being a bigot. He's an honest man, and he cares about this town and its people. He's only gonna want the best, and from where I'm standin', McGee, I can't see no one better than you. Davis is an old man, set in his ways, but all he cares about is retiring. If he's got both Vance and me leanin' on him to hire you, he'll fold, and he won't give a rat's ass where you're from. And as for the parents of the kids you'd be teachin', if anyone gives you any grief, you just let me know, and I'll sort 'em out. It is part of my job, after all." He winked at Tim, and handed him a badge.

Tim frowned and looked down at the badge. It was a brass star, about three inches in diameter, with the words "Town of Roop's Point Sheriff" stamped on the front. He stared at Gibbs as he numbly handed the badge back, wondering at this man who was unassumingly helping him get his life back together.

"W-Why are y-y-you h-helping m-me?" Tim whispered.

"You need it," Gibbs replied simply. "You're a human being, McGee, and it ain't fair that you've been treated so badly by so many people. I wanna start makin' it right."

"Why? I-It's n-not y-your c-concern," Tim murmured, confused.

"My son found you on my property, brought you to my house," Gibbs growled. "It _is_ my concern. And damn it, McGee, you're worth it! Get that into your head, son. You're a human being, and worth other people's concern. Now, I'll get Vance and Davis over after the holidays, and once Ducky clears you to travel and work, you'll start whippin' all our kids into shape. Until you've got enough saved up for your own place, you'll stay here, room and board in exchange for some of that bookkeeping magic you do, and some help on the ranch once the weather starts clearing up. You ride? Shoot?"

Tim shook his head numbly, still trying to process what had just happened. A job and a place to live, all in one day… it didn't seem real. How long would it take for the other shoe to drop? Was Gibbs's promise of protection if the townsfolk protested against his position credible, or was it simply a platitude, meant to be nice but not really substantive?

"You'll learn," Gibbs said, shrugging. "In the meantime, you can get started on my financial records. I ain't real good with figures and such, need someone with those kind of smarts to straighten my records out. You up to it?"

Before Tim could answer, he was interrupted by a furious pounding on the door.

"Gibbs? Gibbs, I know you're in there, open up! It's cold enough to freeze the tail feathers off a penguin out here!" A female voice called out. Tim watched warily as Gibbs growled to himself and levered out of his chair. He stomped over to the door and yanked it open, admitting a cold blast of winter air and the strangest looking woman Tim had ever seen.

She was dressed head to toe in black and blood red, her ebony hair parted down the middle and tied tightly into two high ponytails with red and black ribbons. Her naturally pale face was made up like a play actor's, with brightly rouged cheeks, dark crimson lips, and darkly shadowed eyes. She was inordinately tall for a woman, and her skirts were scandalously short for a lady her age- nearly up to her knees, revealing her outrageously high heeled boots and oddly striped red and black stockings.

However, despite her shocking appearance, the woman bounced into the house with a broad grin, removing and hanging up her thick, midnight black winter cloak herself. Tim struggled to his feet as she came over to the seating area around the large stone fireplace.

"Oh, hello!" The woman said brightly, thrusting a slender, elegant hand at him for him to shake. "I don't think we've met before. I'm Abby Scuito, Apothecary and Midwife. What's your name? Where're you from? I'm from 'Nawlins, myself- born and raised in the bayou!"

Miss Scuito continued to chatter, while Tim could only stand and stare, locking his knees to keep himself from falling over like a felled tree. This woman… he'd never seen someone so outgoing, so boisterous, so… _sunny_. Despite her rather funeral appropriate attire, she was so bright and warm and _friendly_ that it nearly took his breath away.

"Abby!" Gibbs barked, trying and failing to hide a fond smile. "Sit down, and let the man speak! McGee, sit down before you fall down, would ya?"

Tim nodded and looked at Miss Scuito again, waiting for her to have a seat. A gentleman never took his seat before a lady in his presence was situated, and Tim, despite his upbringing (or lack of it) was nothing if not a gentleman. Miss Scuito seemed to realize this, as she shot him a bright smile and elegantly lowered herself down into one of the soft padded chairs. Smiling back, half in relief and half simply because her smile was so infectious, he carefully lowered himself back into the chair, biting back an audible sigh of relief as his weakened, shaking muscles relaxed.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, are you all right?" Miss Scuito asked worriedly, leaning forward in her seat and looking him up and down in concern. Tim found himself smiling again, and nodded.

"D-Don't w-worry, I-I'm f-fine, m-miss," he mumbled, coloring slightly as he stuttered. "M-My n-name is Timothy McGee. I-I a-am a-a s-schoolteacher, f-from B-Boston."

"Oh really? I've heard Boston is so beautiful in the autumn," Miss Scuito sighed happily. "Of course, 'Nawlins is gorgeous any time of the year- have you ever been there, Mr. McGee? The Crescent City, right at the mouth of the Mississippi River! I do miss the River sometimes, but Roop's Point is my home now, and I would never leave! Say, Mr. McGee, what brings you to our little town? Visiting, or just passing through?"

Tim felt his face color even more, and murmured, "L-Looking f-for w-work, m-miss."

"Really? Wow, I'd thought schoolteachers were in high demand, especially back east," Miss Scuito said, frowning in confusion.

"N-Not w-when th-they're I-Irish, m-miss," Tim mumbled.

Miss Scuito gaped at him like a fish for a full minute, until her lips pressed together into a thin line, and her lovely green eyes narrowed angrily, making Tim wonder if she was one of those people who was offended by his mere presence upon learning of his heritage.

"Why, that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life!" She declared with a furious toss of her ponytails. "Why on earth should one's ethnicity determine their fitness for work? Especially in this country, where practically every single solitary person can trace their family line back to some European, Asian, or African land within just a few short generations? Why, my very own grandmother was the daughter of a French colonist back when 'Nawlins belonged to France! Gibbs, didn't your great great grandparents help settle Pennsylvania with William Penn? Not even five years ago, Mayor Vance was some fat cat cotton king's slave, and now look at him! One of the best mayors Roop's Point has ever seen! I swear, Gibbs, sometimes humanity just makes me want to grab it round the neck and shake some sense into it! Not hiring Irish indeed! Complete idiocy!"

Tim stared at Miss Scuito, completely nonplussed. He'd never heard a woman lecture so passionately on a subject most would consider "men's talk". He glanced over at Gibbs to see what the older man made of it, and found the sheriff sitting placidly in his chair, whittling away at his small piece of wood and nodding almost absently as he listened. Tim wondered if behavior such as that just displayed by Miss Scuito was normal for women in this town.

"So, Mr. McGee, has Gibbs told you about our opening in the town's schoolhouse for a new schoolteacher?" Miss Scuito asked, smiling broadly.

Tim gulped. "H-He h-had j-just f-finished, m-miss, w-when y-you a-arrived," he said.

"Well? Are you considering it?"

"Ease off, Abbs," Gibbs rumbled, pinning her with a severe look. "Kid's still recovering, he don't need you beating at him like he's a dead horse."

Tim couldn't help it, his face scrunched in disgust at the visual image, and a sound to match escaped him. He blinked in surprise and felt his face heat up as both Miss Scuito fought to hide her giggles and Gibbs openly smirked.

"T-To a-answer y-your q-question, M-Miss S-Scuito," Tim said slowly, "I… I-I b-believe th-that I-I w-will m-meet w-with M-Mayor V-Vance and M-Mr. D-Davis a-about t-taking o-over a-as R-Roop's P-Point's s-schoolt-teacher, i-if t-they w-will h-have m-me."

Miss Scuito squealed in delight and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, and it took everything Tim had not to throw her off in an ungentlemanly shove and race for the guest room. He hadn't been hugged in such a way since he was a little boy, since… no, he wouldn't think about that. He began wishing desperately that Miss Scuito would release him so that he could escape to his room and his books.

Perhaps seeing Tim's distress, Gibbs cleared his throat pointedly. "Abbs, let the man breathe, will ya?"

Miss Scuito grinned, gave Tim one last squeeze, and then released him, daintily sitting back down in her chair.

"You'll love teaching here, Mr. McGee, our children are wonderful and so well behaved and smart," she said, grinning broadly and bouncing slightly as she spoke. "You'll have Jared and Lily Vance, Mayor Vance's children, and Amanda Lee, the younger sister of our town lawyer, Michelle. Little Zach Tanner's just starting kindergarten, and Angela Kelp, oh Lordy, such a smart girl, she's in the tenth grade now, can you believe it, Gibbs? Highest ranking student in the school, and just twelve years old! You'll also have Kody Meyers, he's the oldest in the school, sixteen years old, but a real sweetheart when he's not drunk. Then there's Carson Taylor, he and Tony are two peas in a pod, and Noah Taffett, he and Jared Vance are best friends. And last but not least is little Sandy Watson… oh dear." For the first time since Tim had met her, Miss Scuito looked rather reluctant and eyed Tim nervously.

"I-Is s-something th-the m-matter, M-Miss S-Scuito?" Tim asked, concerned.

"Um, Mr. McGee, do you have any training in the education of blind people?" Miss Scuito asked tentatively. "Sandy Watson was born blind, and she's never been able to go to school because no other teachers could help her."

Tim grinned broadly, garnering looks of surprise from both Miss Scuito and Gibbs. "A-As it so h-happens, miss, I h-have learned to r-read and write u-using a tactile a-alphabet called Braille, n-named after the F-Frenchman who'd invented it," he began, his stutter slowly melting away as he entered his element. "H-He himself was blind, and i-invented this alphabet in order t-to allow other blind p-people to read and write w-without using their eyes. I-I have training in the e-education of adults and children a-alike in this alphabet, so i-if the child in question a-and her parents would c-consent to meet with me privately, e-either at the town schoolhouse or their o-own residence, I would be happy t-to introduce them to the system."

"A tactile alphabet?" Miss Scuito gasped, fascinated. "Read without using one's eyes? How does it work?"

"English, McGee," Gibbs growled, although he looked rather curious as well.

"A-An alphabet written in a system of d-dots punched into the underside of the p-paper, and read by running o-one's fingertips over the raised dots o-on the other side," Tim explained. "The dots are a-arranged in a single grid of six, with a specific c-combination of dots representing each letter of the a-alphabet, as well as numbers zero through nine, and even p-punctuation and musical notes. I-It's somewhat difficult to learn a-at first, due to the fact that o-one is relying on touch rather than sight to r-read it, but if one takes the time and e-effort to learn, it is a very simple system. Miss Watson would have an easier time of it than her p-parents, but that is simply because her sense of touch is much more d-developed due to her lack of sight, and children in general tend to l-learn new languages faster than adults anyway."

"And you're trained to teach people to read and write in this alphabet?" Gibbs asked, silvery eyebrows nearing his hairline.

"I-I a-am, s-er, Gibbs," Tim replied, nodding.

"Gibbs, you _can't_ let this one get away!" Miss Scuito demanded imperiously. "Sandy's been _dying_ to go to school, and now that her bastard father's been put away, she can! _And_ she'll be able to start reading and writing!"

Gibbs said nothing for a few minutes, and then turned to Miss Scuito. "Abbs, I need you to go back into town and tell Vance that I want him and Davis here two hours after dawn on Monday. Give his reply to Tony to bring back here when his shift is over, got it?"

"Aye aye, Gibbs! I'll go right away!" Miss Scuito declared, jumping to her feet and running to the door, grabbing her cloak and wrapping it around herself. "Vance and Davis at SKG at ten o'clock Monday, got it! It was nice to meet you, Mr. McGee!"

"N-Nice m-meeting y-you, t-too, M-Miss S-Scuito," Tim called quietly, as Miss Scuito yanked open the door and raced out, slamming it behind her.

He slumped down in his chair, suddenly exhausted. Miss Scuito was delightful, but she seemed to suck all of the energy out of him when she left.

"Go hit the rack, McGee," Gibbs ordered. "You need anything from town?"

"I-I d-don't, s-er, Gibbs," Tim sighed, yawning. "'Scuse me."

Gibbs snorted, smirking. "McGee, it's Boss now- you belong to me."

Tim stood slowly, mulling these words over. He should've been terrified, suddenly having some man he barely knew claim ownership over him, but for some reason, he only felt relieved. He had a job (actually, if he really thought about it, he had _three_), he had a roof over his head, and people who seemed to like him and want him around, despite being the bane of good Americans' existence.

Things were looking up.

"Aye Boss," he answered quietly.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: In this chapter, and subsequent chapters, I own Roop's Point, SKG Ranch (cyber cupcakes to anyone who figures out what the initials mean!), Diane the Milk-cow, and Mr. Robert Davis.<strong>

**The next chapter of _Line in the Sand_ will be posted on Wednesday, April 4, at 11 PM.**


	2. Acceptance

**__**Line in the Sand  
>An NCIS Fanfic<br>By CaelumFelis  
>Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or anything associated with it.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello, everyone, and welcome back! Your wait is over, and Chapter Two of <em>Line in the Sand<em> has arrived! Thanks a lot for your patience, and be on the lookout for Easter Eggs, since I'm told that Easter is just around the corner! To all whom it applies, Happy Easter, and for my fellow Members of the Tribe (y'all know who you are!), Good Pesach!**

**Enjoy!**

**CaelumFelis ^.^**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter Two<strong>_

_**Acceptance**_

* * *

><p><em>December 25, 1869<br>Roop's Point, Kansas_

_SKG Ranch_

Ziva arrived at SKG Ranch just after noon, with a sled full of cooking pots that constituted Christmas Dinner for the Gibbs's and Mr. McGee, and her contribution to Ducky's feast later that evening. She had thought ahead and prepared everything before departing for the ranch, so that all she had to do when she arrived was burst everything into the oven and tell the sheriff to drop the dishes (_washed_, if he would please) off at the saloon the next time he was in town. She was very curious about the sheriff's new boarder, but judging by the reactions various townsfolk received when questioning Tony and Gibbs about him, the newcomer wasn't quite up to socializing yet. She would be friendly and welcoming if he approached her, otherwise, she would take care of her business and leave. She was not one to force herself when it was made obvious her presence was not welcomed.

The door crashed open as Tony raced out to meet her, grinning broadly. "Zee-vah! You have food!" He yelled happily.

"It needs to cook, Tony, but yes, I have food," Ziva replied, placing a basket on her arm and heaving a large pot out of the bed of the sled. She stepped back, allowing Tony to drive the sled into the barn and take care of Yonatan, her horse.

She entered the small, modest house to find Gibbs in the sitting area of the main room, stoking the fire in the huge flagstone fireplace. "Yom Tov, Gibbs," she said, walking past him towards the kitchen. She placed the basket and the pot down on the table and went to hang up her cloak, returning to the kitchen and tying her large cooking apron over her skirts.

"Back at'cha, Ziva," Gibbs replied. "Thanks for doin' this for us, 'preciate it. You gonna be able to get to Ducky's on time?"

"Ducky understands that I might be late," Ziva said, untying the ropes that secured the lid to her pot for travel. "I have made ham and beans, and a dried apple pie for the three of you. Is this acceptable?"

"Ziva, if it were any more acceptable, I'd have to roll Tony down the hall to bed tonight," Gibbs told her, smirking wickedly. "You want the fireplace or the cookstove?"

"The fireplace will be fine, thank you," she said.

"I'll build the fire up for ya," Gibbs said. "Make yourself at home."

"Where is your guest?" Ziva asked hesitantly, looking around the large room. Other than her and Gibbs, there was no one else there.

"He'll be out soon enough," Gibbs said simply. "He's shy, likes to keep to himself."

Ziva frowned, but said nothing as Gibbs bundled up in preparation for going outside. The rumor that Gibbs's new boarder was to be the town's schoolteacher was running wild through the town, thanks to Abby, and she found it odd that a man who was supposedly trained to get up in front of children and talk to them was shy. She dismissed the thought from her mind as she focused on her cooking, using her apron to grasp one of the iron swivel hooks bolted to the fireplace and swing it towards her. She hung the pot of ham and beans on the hook and gave it a stir with a ladle she'd brought with her, poking at the dying fire beneath with the poker at the same time.

Gibbs returned with an armload of kindling and built up the fire again, to Ziva's specifications. Once she was satisfied with the temperature, she unwrapped the unbaked pie and placed it on the hearth close to the fire, but not close enough that it would bake too quickly and burn. She then pulled one of the thickly padded chairs close to the fireplace to keep an eye on the ham and beans, and engaged Gibbs with small talk as he sat in one of the other chairs and whittled.

"Damn it's cold out there!" Tony's loud voice announced his arrival from the barn, as the tall Italian quickly entered and bolted the door shut, and began the laborious process of unwrapping his various coverings. "It's gotta be something like thirty below, Boss! And it's snowing again- the way it's going, you may not be able to get back to town tonight, Zi. We may have to kick McBookworm out of his room for ya."

"You'll do no such thing, DiNozzo," Gibbs growled. "If it comes to that, Miss David will sleep in my room."

"Yes Boss," Tony sighed, draping himself across the third chair around the fireplace. "So, Zi, you seen McAbsent yet? Or is he still in hiding?"

"I have not yet met Mr. McGee, and do not force him to come out, Tony," Ziva said, giving the beans and ham a stir as she glared at the deputy sheriff. "He will introduce himself when he is ready, not a moment sooner."

"You're no fun," Tony complained.

Soon, delicious smells began wafting all through the small house, and Ziva announced dinner to be ready. By that time, they still had not seen any sign of Mr. McGee, and so Gibbs, frowning slightly in concern more than anger, went to fetch him. In the meantime, Tony set the table, and Ziva, glancing out the window at the veritable blizzard raging outside, told him to add an extra place for her, since there was no possible way she would be making it to Ducky's that night.

She was dishing out the ham and beans when the door to the hallway opened, and Gibbs emerged, leading a rather thin, brown haired young man who stared at the older man's boots, his ears bright red.

"About time, McTardy!" Tony teased gently, causing Ziva to glance at him in surprise. She had never heard the man speak so carefully to another man, but after a careful study of the boy (for he looked far too young to be called a man, despite his impressive stature), she realized that he had very little, if any, experience with friendly, familial ribbing. The simple, gentle taunt had caused his ears to turn even redder than they already were, and she had the strange urge to gut Tony for causing the poor boy more discomfort.

"It appears that I will be taking advantage of your hospitality tonight, Gibbs," Ziva said, taking attention off of young Mr. McGee. "The snow is blowing too hard outside to risk driving four miles at night."

Gibbs grunted and nodded, and she turned to Mr. McGee, smiling gently. "I do not believe we have been introduced," she said. "I am Ziva David, the proprietress of the saloon in town. And if town gossip is to be believed, you are Mr. McGee, our new schoolteacher, yes?"

Mr. McGee nodded mutely, eyeing her carefully, until he seemed satisfied that she was not going to hurt him and nodded politely. "I-I a-am," he murmured, and she just managed to catch a hint of his sweet sounding accent. "P-Pleasure t-to m-meet y-you, m-ma'am."

"Just Ziva, please, Mr. McGee," she said kindly.

"Y-Yes, ma- er, Ziva," Mr. McGee stammered.

Ziva smiled. This new young man was quite adorable, with his impeccable manners and charming accent. He was terribly skinny, though, and she decided then and there that it would be her mission to feed him up so that he did not get blown away in the harsh Kansas winds.

"Mr. McGee, if you would be so kind as to take a seat, I will serve dinner," she said imperiously, directing him with her ladle. Mr. McGee smiled tentatively and sat down.

"J-Just T-Tim, p-please," he murmured.

"Very well," Ziva replied, placing a plate loaded almost to overflowing with beans and ham in front of him. "I trust you have no aversion to ham or beans, Tim?"

"I-I h-haven't, ma-er, Ziva," he answered, his eyes widening as he stared down at his plate in wonder. In an impressive display of self control, he waited until the others were served and Ziva had sat down with her own plate of berry preserves and bread. Gibbs recited a short prayer, and Ziva mumbled her own blessing in Hebrew, and everyone began eating, Tim nearly diving into his plate.

"Easy there, McGee, it ain't gonna run away from ya," Gibbs rumbled gently. Tim did not reply, but he did slow down, causing Ziva to look at him curiously.

When Tony and Gibbs had finished their seconds, and Tim his thirds, Ziva brought out the dried-apple pie, and began slicing it up. Both Gibbs and Tony grinned broadly as they began on their slices, but Tim poked at his with his spoon, a perplexed expression on his face.

"Wassa' matter, McHungry? Ain't you never seen pie before?" Tony asked.

"I-I h-haven't," Tim replied, "a-at l-least, n-not w-with f-fruit i-inside." He took a small bite, and a huge grin crossed his face. "Apple tart! My ma used to make it with blackberries for birthdays and name days! But this tastes different… may I ask you for your recipe, ma-er, Ziva?"

Ziva grinned and told him, and the two spent the rest of the meal comparing recipes. As they talked, she glanced around at Gibbs and Tony. The older man had a sly little smirk on his face, while Tony looked dumbstruck, and Ziva wondered if they had ever heard the young Irishman say so much at one time.

"You will have to introduce me to some of these dishes, Tim," she said, as she stood to collect the dishes after everyone had finished. The pie was no more, Tim had eaten nearly half of it by himself, while the other two men had had two slices each, and Ziva one. No one seemed to mind, however, and she suspected that she was not the only one who wanted to see Tim gain some much needed weight.

"Hey McGee, do you actually play that fiddle you've got, or is it just for show?" Tony taunted after all the dishes had been washed and dried and put away, and the fireplace fed once more.

"A-Aye, I-I p-play it," Tim replied softly. A strange look crossed his face, and he looked at Tony almost challengingly. "C-Can y-you h-handle l-listening t-to i-it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tony growled. "It's a fiddle, McGee."

Tim simply smiled mysteriously and disappeared into the depths of the house, returning a few minutes later with a very well-worn but still beautiful fiddle. After a few minutes spent tuning, he took a deep breath, and slammed his foot on the floor.

"_While in the merry month of May from me home I started,__  
><em>_Left the girls of Tuam so sad and broken hearted,__  
><em>_Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother,__  
><em>_Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother,__  
><em>_Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born,__  
><em>_Cut a stout black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins;__  
><em>_Bought a pair of brogues rattling o'er the bogs__  
><em>_And fright'ning all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin."_

Ziva laughed out loud at the expression of shock on Tony's face as he watched Tim fiddle and sing like a madman.

"_One two three four five,  
>Hunt the hare and turn her<br>Down the rocky road  
>And all the ways to Dublin,<br>Whack-fol-lol-de-ra!_

"_In Mullingar that night, I rested limbs so weary,__  
><em>_Started by daylight, Next mornin' light and airy,__  
><em>_Took a drop of the pure, To keep my heart from sinkin',__  
><em>_That's an Irishman's cure, Whene'er he's on for drinking.__  
><em>_To see the lasses smile, Laughing all the while,__  
><em>_At my curious style, 'Twould set your heart a-bubblin'.__  
><em>_They ax'd if I was hired, The wages I required,__  
><em>_Till I was almost tired, Of the rocky road to Dublin._

The song continued, Tim stomping his foot to keep time, his face red as he sang and fought to keep up with the song's incredibly fast pace. The chorus was sung again, followed by two more verses, until Tim was almost purple with effort.

"_The boys of Liverpool, When we safely landed,__  
><em>_Called myself a fool; I could no longer stand it;__  
><em>_Blood began to boil, Temper I was losin',__  
><em>_Poor ould Erin's isle They began abusin',__  
><em>_"Hurrah my soul," sez I, My shillelagh I let fly;__  
><em>_Some Galway boys were by, Saw I was a hobble in,__  
><em>_Then with a loud hurray, They joined in the affray.__  
><em>_We quickly cleared the way, For the rocky road to Dublin._

"_One two three four five,  
>Hunt the hare and turn her<br>Down the rocky road  
>And all the ways to Dublin,<br>Whack-fol-lol-de-ra!"_

Then suddenly, the song was over, and Tim stood in the center of the large room, panting like a hunting dog, his arms hanging down by his sides, with fiddle in one hand and bow in the other.

"Where on earth did you learn to play like that, McFiddler?" Tony gasped, staring at the younger man in awe.

Tim turned his gaze to the floor. "L-Listened t-to m-my d-da p-play w-when I-I w-was a-a b-boy, t-taught m-myself," he murmured. "T-This f-fiddle's b-been i-in m-my f-family s-since b-before w-we l-left I-Ireland."

"Where in Ireland is your family from, Tim?" Ziva asked.

"C-County C-Cork, f-from a-a v-village c-called Ballingeary," Tim answered. "M-My d-da l-lost h-his c-crop i-in t-the G-Great F-Famine t-three y-years r-running, a-and c-came o-over t-to B-B-Boston w-when I-I w-was t-two. M-My m-m-ma a-and I-I f-f-followed w-when I-I w-was s-six." For a moment, the boy looked miserable, but it was barely a second before he glanced up at them shyly. "O-One o-of m-my g-great-g-grandfathers i-is m-mentioned i-in a-another s-song, _T-The I-Irish R-Rover_. W-Want t-to h-hear i-it?"

"Fire away, McGee, not like we got anywhere else to be!" Tony said, grinning. "Let's see what colors you turn this time!"

Tim smiled shyly, tuned his fiddle once more, and began to play and sing.

"_On the Fourth of July, 1806__  
><em>_We set sail from the sweet Cobh of Cork__  
><em>_We were sailing away with a cargo of bricks__  
><em>_For the Grand City Hall in New York__  
><em>_'Twas a wonderful craft__  
><em>_She was rigged fore and aft__  
><em>_And oh, how the wild wind drove her__  
><em>_She stood several blasts__  
><em>_She had twenty seven masts__  
><em>_And they called her The Irish Rover."_

This tune was slightly less wild, with a steady, plodding rhythm that Ziva found she enjoyed a bit more than the previous song. It was quite obvious that this song was also a fictional tale, because Ziva couldn't quite imagine a ship with twenty seven masts.

"_We had one million bags of the best Sligo rags__  
><em>_We had two million barrels of stones__  
><em>_We had three million sides of old nanny goate tails__  
><em>_We had four million barrels of bones__  
><em>_We had five million hogs__  
><em>_six million dogs__  
><em>_Seven million barrels of porter__  
><em>_We had eight million barrels of old blind horses hides'__  
><em>_In the hold of the Irish Rover_

_"There was awl Mickey Coote__  
><em>_Who played hard on his flute__  
><em>_And the ladies lined up for a set__  
><em>_He would tootle with skill__  
><em>_For each sparkling quadrille__  
><em>_Though the dancers were fluther'd and bet__  
><em>_With his smart witty talk__  
><em>_He was cock of the walk__  
><em>_As he rolled the dames under and over__  
><em>_They all knew at a glance__  
><em>_When he took up his stance__  
><em>_That he sailed in The Irish Rover."_

"I think I like that Mickey Coote," Tony said, smirking. Tim grinned and continued playing, going a bit louder on the next couple of lines.

"_**There was Barney McGee**__**  
><strong>__**From the banks of the Lee**__  
><em>_There was Hogan from County Tyrone__  
><em>_There was Johnny McGurk__  
><em>_Who was scared stiff of work__  
><em>_And a man from Westmeath called Malone__  
><em>_There was Slugger O'Toole__  
><em>_Who was drunk as a rule__  
><em>_And Fighting Bill Tracy from Dover__  
><em>_And your man, Mick McCann__  
><em>_From the banks of the Bann__  
><em>_Was the skipper of the Irish Rover._

_"For a sailor its' always a bother in life__  
><em>_It's so lonesome by night and by day__  
><em>_That he longs for the shore__  
><em>_and a charming young whore__  
><em>_Who will melt all his troubles away__  
><em>_Oh, the noise and the rout__  
><em>_Swillin' poiteen and stout__  
><em>_For him soon the torment's over__  
><em>_Of the love of a maid he is never afraid__  
><em>_An old salt from the Irish Rover_

_"We had sailed seven years__  
><em>_When the measles broke out__  
><em>_And the ship lost its way in the fog__  
><em>_And that whale of a crew__  
><em>_Was reduced down to two__  
><em>_Just myself and the Captain's old dog__  
><em>_Then the ship struck a rock__  
><em>_Oh Lord! what a shock__  
><em>_The bulkhead was turned right over__  
><em>_Turned nine times around__  
><em>_And the poor old dog was drowned__  
><em>_I'm the last of The Irish Rover."_

The song finished, and Ziva, Tony, and Gibbs all applauded as Tim blushed fiercely.

"How did your great grandfather come to be in a song?" Ziva asked.

"M-My d-da s-said t-that G-Great G-Grand-Da M-McGee, G-G-d b-bless h-his s-soul, c-challenged t-the a-author t-to a-a d-drinking c-contest," Tim said, sitting down on the hearth and absently plucking his fiddle's strings. "W-Whoever l-lost h-had t-to w-write a-a s-song w-with t-the w-winner's n-name a-at t-the b-beginning o-of t-the f-fourth v-verse. G-Great G-Grand-Da M-McGee, G-G-d b-bless h-his s-soul, w-won." A mischievous smile crossed Tim's face. "G-Good t-thing, t-too, 'c-cause G-Great G-Grand-Da M-McGee, G-G-d b-bless h-his s-soul, w-was p-pants a-at t-thinking u-up s-songs."

The others laughed, and Tim asked if there were any requests. The rest of the night was spent singing, dancing, and listening to Tim murder his fiddle and watching him turn all sorts of interesting colors as he sang the fast paced, word-filled ballads of his childhood. Ziva made a mental note to make sure that Tim brought his fiddle to the Christmas Dinner next year. He was sure to be extremely popular with the rest of the town.

* * *

><p><em>December 27, 1869<br>Roop's Point, Kansas_

_SKG Ranch_

Mayor Leon Vance was a realist. It was what had helped him survive slavery and the war, and also what helped him run his town to the best it could be. As such, he had been somewhat reluctant to believe that a Harvard educated schoolteacher who could teach Sandy Watson to read and write had just shown up on Gibbs's doorstep in need of work. It seemed like something out of the tall tales his wife told to their children at night before bed. However, one didn't say no to Sheriff Jethro Gibbs, especially about something as important as this, so Monday morning at precisely ten o'clock, he was standing on the front porch of the sheriff's ranch house with their current schoolmaster, Robert Davis.

"This had better not be a waste of time," Davis growled. "I gotta round up some of the town men to dig out the schoolhouse."

"Gibbs doesn't waste time unless there's a damn good reason for it, Robert," Vance said evenly.

Just then, the door opened to reveal Deputy Sheriff DiNozzo, who grinned at them and stood aside to admit them. "Morning, Mayor, Mr. Davis," he said, his tone just shy of sarcastic. Vance nodded coolly, while Davis simply grunted. The mayor wasn't very fond of DiNozzo, whom he found far too much of a joker to take seriously as a lawman. He was found far too often at David's Saloon, flirting with ladies and drinking, sometimes even playing the piano when Miss David was short on performers. However, he was Gibbs's second, and his adopted son, and he knew that the sheriff trusted no one more than him.

"Howdy, Mayor, Mr. Davis," Gibbs said, striding into the main room as Vance and Davis hung up their wraps by the door. "Thanks for comin' on such short notice."

"Well? Where's this new schoolteacher you've found, Gibbs?" Davis growled, getting straight to the point.

"Tony?" Gibbs simply looked at DiNozzo, who nodded and disappeared into the depths of the house, returning a few minutes later with the youngest and skinniest looking man Vance had ever seen. He honestly couldn't call him a man, both because of his boyish features, and extremely submissive posture as he followed DiNozzo to the parlor area around the fireplace. Vance recognized that posture- it was one of a person thoroughly beaten by life and hardship, who wasn't sure who to trust anymore. He also noticed DiNozzo's demeanor as he gestured for the man to sit and then moved to stand behind him, hands resting on the top of the chair just behind the younger man's shoulders. He was protective, eyeing Vance and Davis for any sign of aggression, determined to keep them from harming the young man.

"What's your name, boy?" Davis jumped right in, growling the question at the boy sharply.

"Timothy McGee, sir," the boy replied, his name and the cadence of his voice indicating his Irish heritage. So that was why he wasn't able to find work back east.

"How old are you, Mr. McGee?" Vance asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"Twenty three this coming January, sir, Mr. Mayor," McGee said.

"Rumor has it you're a Harvard grad," Davis growled. "I don't put much stock in rumors. Where'd you study, boy?"

"Harvard College, sir, I can show you my degree, if you wish," McGee answered immediately, looking up for the first time and pinning Davis with alarming green eyes.

"Easy, boy, just wanted to verify," Davis grumbled. "You got any prior experience teaching?"

"I taught boys and girls in my tenement house in Boston how to read and write in both English and Irish from the time I was eleven years old until I was sixteen," McGee replied. "I continued to assist teaching in the primary school in Cambridge throughout my time at school, and I've taught in various primary schools between here and Cambridge for short periods of time since I graduated."

An impressive résumé, to be sure, but Vance knew that Davis would focus in on one thing.

"Why'd you move around so much?"

McGee's ears colored, an interesting phenomenon Vance had never seen before. "Parents back east weren't quite comfortable allowing an Irishman to teach their children, sir, and so would only hire me on temporarily until a non-Irish teacher could be found, and at much reduced wages."

Vance saw Gibbs's eyebrows jump up for a second, and then lower in a dark scowl. He himself was shocked as well- as far as he could see, this man was more than capable of handling a classroom, he'd certainly had plenty of experience.

"Any complaints made against you? By parents, children, colleagues, superiors?" Davis pressed.

"The only complaint I have ever received was in the form of my rejection as a teacher on the grounds of my ethnicity," McGee stated firmly. "Were I not Irish, I would have a perfect employment record."

"References?"

"None, sir, on account that none of my previous employers would consent to allow me one," McGee replied evenly.

Vance had to admit, the man had poise. Despite Davis' almost malicious interrogation, McGee never raised his voice, never showed any sign of intimidation or discomfort but for that one instance of his ears turning red. His gaze was clear and direct, his expression carefully neutral. His tone was firm, but respectful, and he answered every question directly and without hesitation.

_He's obviously done this before,_ the mayor thought, watching as Davis moved on from McGee's employment and educational history to quizzing him on basic skills. The young man recited mathematical tables that made Vance's head spin (and his was not the only one, as he saw both Gibbs and DiNozzo's expressions grow completely befuddled), answered questions on American and European history, and recited both prose and poetic works. By the end of it, the boy was teaching Davis things, particularly about recent developments in science and technology.

"Well, young man, you're certainly qualified," Davis said grudgingly. "I can think of a million reasons to hire you, and a single reason not."

Vance could actually see McGee steeling himself for the perceived rejection, though his outward appearance never changed.

"I'm not ecstatic about your age, you're only a few years older than our oldest student," Davis growled. "You'll also be teaching some of the adults in town, some of which have two or three decades on you, boy. How are you at discipline?"

McGee was visibly surprised, and took a split second to regain his footing. "It's a personal rule of mine never to strike anyone, child or adult," he said firmly. "I have found that there are other, much more effective means of discipline. Often, simply sitting down and talking to the offending student is enough to take care of most problems."

"And if the misbehavior continues? Gets worse?" Davis pressed.

"Then the teacher, student, and the student's parents must sit down together and discuss what is going wrong," McGee replied. "The teacher's job is to educate his or her students and provide for their safety and well-being when they are in his or her care, not to raise the student from birth. That's the work of the parents, and to create a healthy, balanced, well-behaved student, the parents and the teacher must work in tandem, not blame each other. If the parents cannot see the teacher's point of view, and vice versa, then to preserve the right of the other students to education, the offending student may be asked to leave the school and not return."

"Deny the misbehaving student his right to education?" Davis questioned. "Wouldn't a simple paddling be easier and more effective?"

"Sir, for a student to continue to engage in misbehavior after every attempt to correct him indicates to me that that student has no interest in his education," McGee stated firmly. "A student with no interest in education is detrimental to the morale of the class, and a nuisance to the teacher and the other students. A "simple paddling" would not be effective here, because it would just give the student another reason to hate school more than he already does. If his behavior cannot be corrected without resorting to violence, then for the sake of the other students, he should be removed from the school."

Davis sat back in his chair, stroking his beard in thought. Vance, thoroughly impressed, glanced at Gibbs, who looked back at him questioningly. Vance nodded, and a tiny smirk crossed the older man's face. As far as either man was concerned, Davis' decision was simply a formality.

"Well boy, can't say you haven't thought this through," Davis growled grudgingly. "You're young, you've got some time to figure things out. You're hired, on one condition."

"What is that, sir?" McGee asked pleasantly, in a show of self control that dumbfounded Vance.

"I want to sit in on your classes for a week, to make sure you know what you're doing," Davis said. "If I'm satisfied, that's the last you'll see of me. If not, you've got two weeks after that to change my mind, or you're on the next stage out of here. Understand?"

"I do," McGee replied, raising his chin and staring at Davis almost defiantly. "Have no fear, sir. You'll be satisfied after three days, or I'll leave the next."

"Perfectionist, aren't ya?" Davis groused. "You got yourself a deal, boy. You start when Ducky clears you for travel. Have a good day now." Davis stood and nodded to Vance and Gibbs, wrapped himself back up, and swept out of the house.

Vance chuckled and stood, offering his hand to McGee to shake. "Congratulations, Mr. McGee, I'm sure you'll be a fine addition to Roop's Point," he said. He turned to Gibbs, who was looking more than a little smug. "You let me know when Ducky clears him. I'll call a town meeting and introduce him to everyone."

"Yessir, Mayor," Gibbs smirked. "Have a good holiday now. Send my regards to the missus and the kids."

"Thank you, I will," Vance said, cocking an eyebrow at Gibbs. The ornery old sheriff had hardly ever given him regards to give to Jackie and his children- he was typically of the opinion that work life and home life should remain separate. "You have a good New Years', as well."

"Will do," Gibbs replied blithely.

* * *

><p><em>January 30, 1870<br>Roop's Point, Kansas_

_SKG Ranch_

"Well, young man, you seem to be fit as a fiddle," Ducky said, placing his stethoscope back into his medical bag. "I see no reason for you not to begin getting out and about, as long as you don't strain yourself overmuch."

"T-Thank you, D-Ducky," Tim replied, shrugging back into his shirt. Ducky nodded and strode out of the room, leaving Tim to finish getting dressed. He was just buttoning his cuffs when Tony bounced into his room, a broad, curious grin on his face.

"Well? What'd the Duckman say, McGee?" He asked.

Tim smiled slightly, focused on tying his necktie. "A-As long as I-I don't strain m-myself too much, I'm c-clear for normal a-activities," he replied.

He clapped a hand over his ear as the Italian let out a loud whoop, jumping up into the air and kicking his heels together before landing with a thud back onto the floor. "Way to go, McGee! Now we can get down to business! This calls for some celebratin'!" With that pronouncement, Tony raced out of the room, and Tim winced before following.

He found Tony in the main room, stuffing himself into his frock coat and duster and whirling around frantically, looking for his Stetson. Ducky was sitting placidly at the table with a cup of tea and what appeared to be a very thick novel, completely oblivious to the whirlwind of a man the deputy sheriff had turned into.

"Tony? W-What are you doing?" Tim asked carefully.

"We're goin' to David's, Probie," Tony replied. "Now where's my hat?"

"On the c-chaise over there," Tim told him. "What about G-Gibbs?"

"Let me worry about Gibbs, McWorrywart," Tony scoffed. "C'mon, it's your first time actually goin' outside in almost two months! Ain't ya even a little stir-crazy?"

Tim blinked, glancing over at the bookcase in the corner. He did want to get some new reading material… and if he was going to be staying in this town for any length of time, it wouldn't do for him to not know where everything was…

"All right, l-let me get my coat," Tim sighed, turning back to go to his room. He shrugged on his threadbare brown frock coat, and located his gray wool flat cap, wondering if he should bow to fashion and spring for a bowler hat, or even a Stetson like Gibbs and Tony had.

_Not until you have more than a single penny to your name, Timothy_, he told himself. He returned to the main room to find Tony bundled up from head to toe, and Gibbs sitting at the table with Ducky, deep in conversation.

"What in the seven hells are you wearing, McGee?" Tony demanded, tugging the kerchief he'd tied around his nose and mouth down past his chin to stare disbelievingly at Tim.

Tim glanced down at himself, suddenly seeing the state of his clothing through Tony's eyes- threadbare, nearly worn through completely at the elbows and knees, and frayed cuffs and hems. Feeling his face and ears heat, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and hunched his shoulders.

"Cannot a-afford new clothes," he murmured. "Not until I s-save up some." He stared down at his shoes, the plain brown leather stretched, worn, and faded with age and use.

He heard Tony mutter something, and Gibbs answer, and felt his face heat up even more.

"Here, McGee, catch," Tony called, and Tim looked up just in time to register an undyed canvas duster flying through the air at him before it wrapped around his head and shoulders, knocking his cap to the floor. He managed to untangle himself just in time to nearly get strangled by a flying scarf wrapping around his neck.

"Put those on, and meet me out in the barn," Tony ordered. "We're gonna go get you some clothes that won't fall apart in a stiff wind."

Tim's mouth worked, until he finally squeaked out, "B-But I haven't any money! I couldn't p-pay for anything!"

"McGee," Gibbs called. Tim whirled around to face his new boss, his mind racing with scenarios and possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. Gibbs saw his expression and rolled his eyes. "Calm down, boy, ain't gonna kick you out or anything. Tony, tell Jack to use my tab. McGee, get only what you need to stay warm for the next three months. Ducky didn't get you through the worst case of pneumonia in the history of this town only to have you up and relapse on us from hypothermia, and you can't be a respectable schoolteacher if you look like you walked right out of the Boston slums."

"T-Thank y-you, s-er, B-Boss," Tim stammered, flabbergasted. He'd never had an employer who took so much interest in him- hell, he'd never had _anyone_ take so much interest in him, not since he was a young kid.

"C'mon, McGee! We gotta go if we wanna get back before nightfall!" Tony called.

"Get goin', son," Gibbs said, sharing a smirk with Ducky, who was practically shaking with mirth.

"Aye, Boss!" Tim yelped. He shrugged the duster on, buttoning it up all the way, and wrapped the scarf around his neck, making sure it covered his nose and mouth. He snatched his cap from the floor, stuffed it on his head, and raced out the door.

Tony was waiting outside the barn, arms crossed and foot tapping on the frozen ground. "C'mon, first lesson," he called, his voice muffled by the green plaid bandanna tied over his face. "You're gonna learn how to saddle and ride a horse."

"What?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

_En Route to Town_

Tony hadn't laughed so much since Ziva spiked Jimmy Palmer's hot cider last Christmas. It was painfully obvious that McGee had never been within a few feet of a horse, much less ridden one.

To be fair, once McGee understood what each piece of tack did and why it was important, he was a better student than Tony had been when he'd first started learning. With confidence that increased with each piece of tack added, McGee slowly saddled up an old, steady mare named Nonna, and after a bit of convincing and a few false starts, managed to mount the placid old girl. Tony corrected his seat, his grip on the reins (it took some convincing to get the Irishman to keep his dominant hand on his thigh instead of in a white-knuckle grip on his saddlehorn), and reassured him that Nonna had been carrying passengers for longer than he'd been living in Kansas and would no sooner throw him than the sky would fall down around their ears.

They started out at a very slow walk, with Tony staying right beside Nonna and her rider as McGee found the rhythm of his mount's gait. Over the four miles that separated SKG Ranch and Roop's Point, he slowly separated himself and his own horse, a tall Quarter horse he'd named Ferrari, slowly increasing the distance between the two of them and McGee and Nonna, letting McGee gain confidence.

"Doin' good, McGee! You're a natural!" Tony called, grinning. "Relax yourself, you ain't goin' that fast, and you ain't gonna fall off. Keep your heels down, point your toes to the sky. That's it, now keep 'em that way. Damn, McGee, you _are_ a natural. You ready to try jogging?"

"_What?_" McGee demanded, his voice pitching up a couple of octaves that Tony didn't even know a man was capable of reaching. His hand jerked on the reins, causing Nonna to jerk her head and snort in indignation.

"Ease up on the reins, there, Probie," Tony said, bringing Ferrari back to walk beside Nonna. "A jog is a slow trot, without any bounce to it. When you ride it, your butt stays glued to the saddle, and that gives ya more stability. It really ain't that much faster than this here walk, Probie."

"Why do you keep calling me that?" McGee growled, visibly trying to relax as Nonna whickered slightly.

"That's what y'are, McGee," Tony replied, shooting the younger man a grin hidden under his kerchief. "Probationary field hand, to be exact."

McGee rolled his eyes.

"So, about here jog trot," Tony began. "Make sure you got your solid seat, don't grip the reins. All ya do to move her into the trot is squeeze her sides a bit with your heels. Not too much, or else you'll be goin' into a full trot, or heaven forbid, a canter. Now, I'm gonna move away a bit, and I wanna see you in that jog trot, y'hear? Here we go, now." Tony angled Ferrari further into the road. "Open road, McGee, let 'er rip!"

McGee nodded, and tentatively dug his heels into Nonna's sides. The old mare simply walked faster, and Tony bit back the urge to tell the kid to put more "oomph" into it. McGee tried again, a little harder this time, and again, all Nonna did was walk a little faster.

Tony thought he heard an Irish curse, and then McGee did something he never thought he'd see the placid, tentative younger man do.

He gave Nonna a good, strong, fierce _kick._

Nonna snorted in surprise, and bolted like a racehorse, faster than he'd ever seen her go, with or without a saddle and rider. McGee had time to let out one startled yelp before he was gone, as Nonna practically flew down the frozen dirt road.

"Shit!" Tony yelled. He kicked Ferrari into a gallop as well, standing up in the stirrips to allow the horse as much speed as he could. He could see Nonna already slowing down, and for a split second panicked when he couldn't see McGee. His panic fled, however, when McGee suddenly sat up in the saddle, leaning back and pulling hard on the reins. His cap was gone (_Good riddance, _Tony thought), and the scarf was nearly untied and flapping in the wind. McGee himself was pale, but his bright green eyes were wide and shining.

"Wow!" The Irishman breathed, once he'd gotten Nonna stopped and his breath back. "What a ride! You do that all the time?"

"Holy Mary, Mother of G-d," Tony hissed, pulling up beside the younger man and removing his hat to brush his hair back. "You realize you coulda just gotten yourself killed? What the hell'd you do that for?"

"She wouldn't go," McGee said simply, looking at Tony like he'd gone and stuck his head in a termite mound. Tony stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

"Jesus Christ, McGee! You're lucky you managed to keep your seat! A fall from a galloping horse's been known to kill a man!" Tony howled. "You really are a natural at this! I fell fifteen times before I even got up to a canter!"

McGee laughed and flicked Tony with his reins, the first time in three weeks the older man had seen the younger do more than smile shyly.

"We'll start at the General Store and get your clothes squared away," Tony said as they entered the town at a light jog. "Pop quiz, Probie- how well do ya know your knots?"

As it turned out, better than Tony did. The two of them tied their horses to the hitching post outside the General Store, and McGee ended up teaching him a brand new knot that Tony decided was his new favorite.

"It's c-called a "mooring hitch"," McGee explained as they went inside. "Holds t-tighter than anything, but c-comes apart with a quick t-tug on the loose end."

"We'll have to teach Gibbs that one!" Tony declared, grinning. "Where'd ya learn it?"

McGee's pleased grin faded away suddenly, replaced with a sad, blank look. "Back East," he said simply.

Tony wilted a bit- over the past month and a half he'd learned that when McGee said "back East", he meant back in Boston. Back in the abusive home he'd grown up in and still hadn't managed to escape, despite time and distance.

"Well, whaddawe have here?"

The two younger men whirled around to find Jackson Gibbs beaming at them, blue eyes twinkling.

"Hey Gramps!" Tony exclaimed, grinning.

"Tony-boy!" Jack replied, and engulfed Tony in a huge hug. "Boy, it's been way too long since I saw ya last. Where in the blue blazes have ya been?"

"Working, like normal folk," Tony replied. "Gramps, ya wanna let go of me? You're scarin' the probie."

Jack blinked in surprise and released him, sneaking a curious glance over Tony's shoulder to where McGee was standing awkwardly, staring down at the floor, his ears bright red.

"And who's this fine young fella?" The old shopkeeper asked, his voice quieter as he regarded McGee with a kind smile.

"T-Timothy M-McGee, s-sir, s-schoolt-teacher," McGee murmured, and Tony bit back a sigh as the nervous stammer he and Gibbs had been working for ages to get rid of returned with a vengeance.

"More than that, Gramps," Tony said proudly. "McGee here's our new bookkeeper and field hand, as well. He's the many talented sort, ain't he?"

"Seems so," Jack replied, winking at Tony. "So, what can I do for you fellas today?"

McGee blushed and shuffled his feet, saying nothing. Tony rolled his eyes and said, "McTenderfoot here needs some new clothes. His have seen more wear than a piece of wood under Boss's sander."

Jack nodded, studying McGee intently. "Field hand, bookkeeper, schoolteacher… ya finished growin' yet, boy?"

McGee shrugged, his gaze glued to the worn-smooth floorboards of the store.

Tony bit back a sigh. McGee had never been this shy around Ziva at Christmas, or Abby when she'd visited a few days before that (Gibbs had told him about that, after he'd come home from a thoroughly confusing duty shift at the office, wherein an overly effusive Abby had tackled him in a bear hug that nearly knocked him off his feet, and then disappeared into the Town Hall), or even around Mayor Vance and Mr. Davis. He'd been somewhat shy around Tony and Gibbs, but that had slowly drained away over the course of the month that McGee had been staying with them. He was still jumpy if one of them approached him the wrong way (the worst reactions came when they came up behind him or from his left), and his stutter was annoyingly stubborn, but he was getting better.

However, he'd never seen McGee clam up this tight before, and the longer it persisted, the more concerned Tony became. Jack seemed to take it all in stride, asking McGee simple questions that he could nod or shake his head to. McGee never took his eyes off of the floor, except to glance at drawings from a catalogue Jack showed him.

Eventually, Jack wrote down an order for two pairs of thick woolen socks; a pair of long underwear; four shirts, two of thin white cotton, and two of a thicker linen in blue and green; four pairs of pants, two in strong brown canvas, and two in thick gray and brown cotton; two black cotton vests; a pair of plain black braces; a thick black cotton frock coat; and a long, black canvas duster. Tony could see a slight flair for the dramatic in his young partner, despite his painfully shy demeanor- any combination of those clothes would make a sharp looking outfit.

"So, young man, how'll ya be payin' for all of this?" Jack asked off-handedly, not even looking at McGee. The Irishman's entire head blossomed in an alarmingly deep crimson, from his hairline to the collar of his threadbare coat.

"Boss said that you can put it on his tab, Gramps," Tony said quickly, as McGee seemed to withdraw even further into himself. Jack nodded absently, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he laboriously calculated the total cost of their purchase.

"S-Seventy-t-three d-dollars a-and s-seventy c-cents."

Jack's head snapped up as Tony whirled around, both looking at McGee, who was still staring at the floor, his blush having lightened to a dusty pink of slight embarrassment.

"How'd you do that, McAbacus?" Tony asked lightly, quickly burying his shock.

McGee shrugged, never looking up from the floor. "S-Simple a-addition," he murmured.

"You did all of that in your head?" Now Tony was seriously impressed. "Damn, you're gonna be handy to have around come calving season, McGee."

McGee shrugged again, and once Jack finished his figuring (letting out a low whistle when he realized that McGee had been correct to the penny), he wrote out the receipt and handed it to Tony. "Here ya go, Bubba. Should have everythin' here in a week or two, I 'spect. In the meantime, Mr. McGee, if ya find yourself needing some emergency replacements, just let me know and you can have the pick of my trading rack. Might find a few gems that'll fit ya."

"T-Thank y-you, s-sir," McGee whispered, giving the shopkeeper a miniscule nod.

"And if at any point you're lookin' to earn a few bucks, I'd be damn grateful if you'd make some sense outta my account books," Jack continued, his tone light and easy as he carefully eyed the younger man. "Ain't never seen someone add up so much so quick, 'side from Miss Abby next door. Ask any of the other shopkeeps on Main Street, they'd be happy to have your help, too."

"Y-Yes, s-sir, t-thank y-you, s-sir," McGee mumbled.

"And cut out that "sir" stuff, I work for a livin'," Jack growled good naturedly, causing McGee's lips to quirk in a tiny, fleeting smile.

"Y-Yes, s- er, J-Jack."

"Now be off with ya both, before I put ya to work," Jack grinned. "You keep your eye on him, Tony-boy- young man like that's gonna run into trouble if he ain't careful."

Tony smirked as McGee looked from him to Jack and back, his eyes questioning even as his expression never changed from its slightly disturbing blankness.

The door to the shop opened, and the three men turned as a woman and a little girl entered, hand in hand. Tony immediately recognized the woman as Julie Watson, her pretty face lined and worn with the cares of a hard life. The little girl, Sandy, kept her sightless blue eyes straight ahead.

"G'mornin', Missus Watson," Jack called quietly, a large grin crossing his face. "Hello, there, Miss Sandy." Sandy's face split into an ear to ear grin, and she waved vaguely in Jack's direction.

"Good morning, Mr. Gibbs," Mrs. Watson replied quietly. "I hope we ain't interruptin' anythin'."

"Not at all," Tony replied easily, seizing upon the opportunity. "We're done here. Missus Watson, Miss Sandy, I'd like you to meet Mr. Timothy McGee, our new schoolmaster. McGee, this is Missus Julie Watson and her daughter, Sandy."

Tony gently pushed McGee forward and took a step back, resisting the urge to bite his lip worriedly. He needn't have worried, however, since McGee seemed to completely shed his silent, anxious demeanor as he bowed slightly at the woman.

"Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Watson," he said quietly, his lips pulled back slightly in an easy smile and his bright green eyes soft and kind. "I've been told that Miss Watson is to attend school for the first time this year. We'll be starting together."

"Thank you, Mr. McGee," Mrs. Watson replied in a whisper, looking a bit flustered. "And yes, Sandy's startin' this year, now that Michael's… indisposed."

"Your voice is odd, Mr. McGee," Sandy said suddenly, her face pointed up in the direction of McGee's voice. "Where're you from?"

McGee's smile broadened, and to Tony's shock, he dropped down into a crouch in front of the little girl. "That's my accent you're talking about, miss," he explained. "I was born in County Cork, Ireland, and grew up in Boston, Massachusetts. Do you like it?"

Sandy smiled. "It's lovely, Mr. McGee. Can I see you?"

"_May_ you see me," McGee corrected gently, "and yes, you may. If you'll allow me…" He gently grasped Sandy's wrist, and brought her hand up to touch his face. The store was absolutely silent as Tony, Jack, and Mrs. Watson watched Sandy's small fingers slowly explore McGee's features.

"You're awful thin, Mr. McGee," she said suddenly, forehead creasing in childish concern. "Ain't Miz Ziva been feedin' you?"

McGee laughed. "I haven't been staying with Miss Ziva, I've been staying with Sheriff Gibbs and Deputy DiNozzo, and I've been very ill recently," he explained. "However, I'm much improved now, and quite famished." As if to illustrate his point, McGee's stomach suddenly let out a loud growl, causing Sandy, Tony, and Jack to laugh and Mrs. Watson to hide an unladylike giggle behind her free hand.

"Deputy DiNozzo, I think you need to take Mr. McGee over to Miz Ziva's and feed him up before he eats me!" Sandy giggled.

"Right away, Miss Sandy," Tony replied, grinning.

"Just a second, Tony," McGee said, gently tweaking Sandy's nose as he stood up. "Mrs. Watson, could you perhaps make some time tomorrow for me and Sheriff Gibbs to visit? I have something I would like to explain to you both that I think will make Miss Watson's time at school much more interesting and valuable."

"'Course, Mr. McGee," Mrs. Watson replied, flustered again. "Noontime should be 'bout perfect, I'll set a couple extra places at the table."

"That's quite generous of you, ma'am, thank you," McGee replied, his gentle, easy smile back on his face. "I'll see both of you tomorrow at noon, then. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Watson, Miss Watson. I look forward to having you in my class."

"You two have a good day, now," Tony added, smiling and touching the brim of his hat. "C'mon, Probie, let's get you some grub before ya pass out on us."

McGee nodded and followed Tony out of the store. They passed the apothecary's shop, where Tony could see Abby through the window, helping bank accountant Daniel Keating with something, although it was obvious to Tony that he was just there to gape at the bright red, lacy petticoats that showed under her short black skirt. He growled to himself, wishing for Abby to wear something proper for once, so he wouldn't have to feel like shooting every man who leered at his surrogate younger sister.

"S'not at all proper," McGee grumbled suddenly, and Tony realized with a start that the younger man was glaring daggers at Keating. "She's a _lady_, you damn hoor, not some dirty brasser to gawk at."

"Relax, McGee," Tony said quietly, not quite sure what exactly McGee had said or how to take the fact that the Irishman seemed just as protective of Abby as he was. He was positive, however, that despite McGee's typically calm and gentle nature, he would have no qualms about bursting into the shop and beating Keating to a pulp if the pencil pusher tried anything. "Abbs can take care of herself. D'you know she can kill a man and not leave a single trace of how she did it?"

The wide green eyed look of wonder McGee turned on him made Tony sigh silently in relief- at least the kid was easy to distract.

He was in the middle of telling McGee about a time he and Gibbs had used Abby's knowledge of chemicals to solve a bank robbery when the pair entered the dark, smoky saloon. They planted themselves at the bar, and Ziva smiled as she came over to them.

"It is wonderful to see you up and around, Tim," she said, nodding at McGee.

"Up and _about_, Zi," Tony corrected.

Ziva snorted indelicately and brushed him off with a wave of her hand. "So what brings you to town?"

McGee colored and stared down at the bar, and Tony smirked. "Had to take McRagbag to Jack's and get him some real clothes."

"And I suppose the two of you are hungry? I have a nice beef stew if you are interested," Ziva said, smirking. "Shopping takes a lot out of a man."

Tony grinned and nodded. "Got that right, Zi. Two bowls of stew for me and the Probie, and a beer each, if you don't mind."

"A few moments, Tony, Tim," Ziva replied, shooting them another smile and disappearing into the kitchen with a swish of her long midnight blue skirts.

"Deputy DiNozzo, Mr. McGee."

Tony turned to find Mayor Vance standing behind them, hands clasped behind his back as his dark eyes studied them both. Tony grinned as McGee colored and looked at the floor once again.

"Howdy, Mayor," he said, standing up and touching the brim of his hat in respect. Despite the fact that Vance always seemed like he had a broom pole up his backside, Tony had no real reason to dislike him. The man loved Roop's Point and would do anything for it, just like Tony. "Nice day, ain't it?"

"Yes it is, Deputy," Vance agreed neutrally, glancing at McGee. "You're looking much better than the last time I saw you, Mr. McGee. Has Dr. Mallard given you permission to proceed with daily tasks?"

Tony blinked as the wordy sentence flew over his head, but McGee simply nodded. "He has, Mayor. I can begin as soon as Mr. Gibbs gets my order of clothing in."

"Would you be adverse to attending a town meeting in two days time? I would like to properly introduce you to your students and their families," Vance asked.

"If you would not be adverse to me appearing less than properly dressed," McGee replied with a sardonic grin, once again surprising the hell out of Tony.

_Every time I reckon I got him pegged, he goes and does somethin' that makes me have to start over again,_ Tony thought, biting back a scowl of annoyance.

"I think everyone will understand, Mr. McGee," Vance said, returning McGee's grin with a smirk of his own. "Very well, then, gentlemen. I see that Ms. David is returning with your meals, so I will take my leave. Deputy, do try to keep our new teacher in one piece, please. I would much prefer not to have to replace him for a very long time."

"No promises, Mayor," Tony smirked, eyeing the steaming bowls of stew that Ziva was carrying their way. He could practically hear Vance's eyes rolling as the man walked away, but his attention was rather occupied with eating.

* * *

><p><em>January 31, 1870<br>Roop's Point, Kansas_

_Watson Family Shanty_

Tim dismounted Nonna and eyed the tiny one-room shack that Gibbs had led him to. The boards that made up the walls were weather-beaten, warped and shrunken from the sun and wind. A tiny curl of smoke coiled its way into the overcast gray sky from a pitted and half rusted stovepipe, and breeze brought the scent of burning wood to his nose. He suddenly flashed back to the tenement house in South Boston he'd grown up in- he could smell the sewage of the streets, hear the crying of children, and the screaming and shouting of men and women in Irish, English, and various other languages. The thick smog of wood and coal smoke was choking, and he could feel his throat closing up as he struggled to breathe.

"McGee?"

He blinked, and suddenly he was back to the present, with Gibbs standing beside him and fixing a quizzical gaze on him. He felt his ears heat up, and he stared at his feet.

"S-sorry," he muttered. He tensed when a hand appeared on his shoulder, but it only gave a gentle squeeze before releasing him.

"Let's go, McGee," Gibbs rumbled, stomping a picket stake into the ground at his feet and tying his enormous black horse, Charger, to it. Tim did the same with Nonna, and the pair of them walked up to the shanty and knocked gently on the door, which looked like it would fall apart at any moment.

That didn't stop Miss Watson from flinging the thin piece of wood wide open as she beamed in their general direction. "Sheriff Gibbs, Mr. McGee, you're just in time! Mama just finished settin' the table!"

"Sandra Juliet Watson, you get away from that door this minute!" Mrs. Watson exclaimed, appearing behind the little girl and scowling worriedly at her. "Sandy, you always ask who it is before answerin' the door, you hear me?"

"Yes Mama," Sandy sighed petulantly, and Tim felt a smile growing on his face before he could stop it. Glancing at Gibbs, he was surprised to see a tiny, wistful smile appear on the older man's features, before it dissolved into a more neutral expression.

"Sandy, your mama's not tryin' to be mean, she just don't want ya gettin' hurt if ya open the door to the wrong person," he explained, crouching down to Sandy's level. "What if McGee and I was a pair of train robbers lookin' for a place to hide from the law? We coulda kidnapped ya and held ya for ransom, and then you'da been in big trouble."

"Then I woulda screamed real real loud and brought Deputy DiNozzo and Mayor Vance and the whole town here," Sandy replied matter-of-factly, and Tim couldn't hold back his grin.

"That's good, but ya know what woulda been even better?" Gibbs asked.

"What?"

"Askin' "who's there?" when ya heard the knock, before you open the door." Sandy blinked, frowning thoughtfully. "If ya don't remember the voice that answers, or no one answers at all, don't open the door. Sound better?"

Sandy nodded slowly. "Yessir, Sheriff Gibbs. I'll do that next time."

Gibbs smiled, and ruffled the little girl's hair. "Well, now that we've got that outta the way, can we come in?"

"_May_ you come in," Sandy corrected, smirking. "And yes, you may."

Gibbs sent Tim a dark look, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. Tim just gave a small smile, and followed the sheriff into the tiny house.

"Howdy, Missus Watson," Gibbs said, removing his Stetson. Tim copied him, gripping his gray cap.

"Howdy, Sheriff," Mrs. Watson replied, shooting a small, shy smile at the older man. "Good afternoon, Mr. McGee. I hope y'all don't mind havin' a bite before we have our talk."

"Not at all, Mrs. Watson," Tim replied. "In fact, it might be better that way. This is not a discussion we want to have on empty stomachs."

They sat down at the roughhewn table, where Mrs. Watson served a very simple meal of salt ham and boiled potatoes. Tim bit down a wave of painful nostalgia as he looked down at his tin plate, remembering the colcannon his mother used to make- mashed potatoes mixed with cabbage and milk and seasoned with just a pinch of salt.

Gibbs led them in grace, and they all ate quickly, eager to get to why Tim and Gibbs were there. Tim helped clear the table, much to the surprise of Mrs. Watson, who stared at him in wonder until his ears turned pink. That saddened him somewhat- the poor woman had never had anyone to help her with anything, since her only child was blind and her husband was a right proper bastard, if he was reading her behavior correctly.

Once everything was cleared away and washed up, the four of them sat back down at the table, and Tim immediately got down to business. "Mrs. Watson, Miss Watson, I'm here today because I want to show you both something that I think will make Miss Watson's time in my classroom much more interesting and informative than it would be otherwise. In doing so, I may have to ask a few questions that seem offensive, but they're just to give me an understanding of what Miss Watson needs from me. If at any time either of you are uncomfortable, just say so, and I will cease immediately."

"What's "cease" mean?" Miss Watson asked suddenly, her expression delightfully curious. Mrs. Watson attempted to hush her, but Tim smiled and stopped her with a shake of his head.

"It's quite all right, ma'am, Miss Watson may ask all the questions she wants, and you may as well, at any time," Tim said. "To _cease_, Miss Watson, is to stop, or finish. If you wish me to, I will cease, or stop, all questions, and we will return to them later. Understood?"

"Think so," Miss Watson replied, frowning in thought. "I want to try it. Sheriff Gibbs, when will you cease to be so quiet?"

Surprised, Gibbs let out a loud bellow of laughter, and Miss Watson turned her head in his direction. "Oh, there you are. Did I do it right?" She asked, turning to Tim.

"Completely right," Tim replied, grinning. "Very good, Miss Watson. Full marks."

Miss Watson and her mother both beamed, and Gibbs smiled as well, despite looking a bit disgruntled.

"So, back to the matter at hand," Tim said. "Miss Watson, would you be so kind as to tell me what this object is?" He placed a battered copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ in her small hands, and watched as the inquisitive fingers traveled all over the small volume.

"It's a book," she said slowly. "Like Mama's Bible, but it ain't as big and heavy."

"Quite so," Tim said. "That book is called _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, and I will be requiring all of my students to recite small sections of it from memory at the end of this summer."

"Mr. McGee," Mrs. Watson said timidly, "if Sandy can't see them letters, how's she gonna learn to read 'em?"

"I'm quite glad you asked, ma'am," Tim replied, grinning. "If I may have _Alice_ back please, miss."

Miss Watson held out the book, and Tim took it from her hands and placed a thick stack of coarse, cheap papers covered in raised dots, messily bound together with thread from Tim's second to last spare shirt, on the table in front of her. Very gently, he arranged her hands so that the left was positioned at the beginning of the first line, and the right just beside it, pointer finger resting on the first pattern of dots.

"This is called Braille writing, Miss Watson," Tim said quietly. "It is writing that is read using your fingers, instead of your eyes. You currently hold in your hands the only Braille copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ currently in existence in the United States."

Mrs. Watson gasped, hands flying to her mouth, as Miss Watson's finger brushed across the line of dot patterns barely visible on the page.

"You can make me read this?" Miss Watson whispered.

"Only if you wish it," Tim replied. "I could teach you to read _and_ write, and not just words. Numbers, mathematical equations, musical notes… you could learn to play an instrument, if you wish."

"Mama! I could play Miss Ziva's piano!" Miss Watson shrieked excitedly. Mrs. Watson's eyes filled with tears, and she stared at her child in wonder.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes baby. You could play the piano." Taking a deep shuddering breath, she turned to Tim. "How much?"

Tim blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"How much to teach my baby to read? Please, Mr. McGee, name your price, and I'll move heaven and earth to pay it."

Tim blinked again, trying to make sense of what she was asking him. He looked at Gibbs in bewilderment, but the older man just frowned sadly.

And suddenly, Tim understood… and he grew _angry_. How dare someone actually _charge_ for teaching children the skills they needed to survive? He knew that he would be paid for his teaching position, but that was different- he was providing a service to the town, teaching its citizens. Miss Watson, Miss Sandra Juliet Watson, eight years old, and blind, was a citizen of the town of Roop's Point. It was his job, as intimated by the town, to teach her. Why would he charge extra for something he would be doing anyway if she could see?

"Mrs. Watson," he said quietly, forcing his voice not to shake with his anger, "you seem to be under the impression that I would charge extra for my services as your daughter's teacher. Please discard this notion. I am paid by the town in which I teach to educate _all_ of its citizens: young, old, black, white, seeing, blind, hearing, and deaf. To charge more than what I am paid for a service that I would render with or without your daughter's disability would be an insult to you and her and a disgrace to my profession." Tim took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "I apologize for every charlatan who led you to believe that this was the case. There will be no charge for teaching Miss Watson to read and write Braille, or for teaching you and any other person you choose, either."

Mrs. Watson stared at him for a few minutes, before bursting into tears, burying her face in her hands. Tim panicked for a second, wondering if he'd said something wrong, but he was saved from asking by Miss Watson, who turned to her mother worriedly. "Mama, why are you crying? What's wrong?"

Mrs. Watson hiccupped and gathered Miss Watson in her arms. "Nothing's wrong, baby," she sobbed. "I ain't never been happier in my whole life. My baby girl's goin' to school and gettin' a real education." She wiped her eyes and turned to Tim with a watery smile. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. McGee. Thanks to you, my girl's gonna have a chance at a real life. How can I ever thank you?"

Tim felt his face heat up and cursed his pale complexion. "No thanks are required, ma'am," he mumbled. "I'm not doing anything more or less than what my profession dictates."

Mrs. Watson chuckled, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Oh, Mr. McGee, you truly are a treasure of a man," she said. "So when can Sandy start?"

"That is yet to be determined, ma'am," Tim said. "There is a town meeting to be held tomorrow to determine particulars such as that. Do remember, however, that learning to read, no matter what letter system is used, takes practice. It's going to be hard, especially for you, Mrs. Watson. Adults generally have a more difficult time acquiring new language skills than children do, and you will have an additional disadvantage, which is your sight."

"I don't care," said Mrs. Watson vehemently, hugging Miss Watson tighter. "Just teach us, Mr. McGee, and I'll do the best I can to learn."

Tim smiled and patted her hand, ignoring her tiny flinch just as Gibbs and Tony ignored his. "I have no doubt that you will. As soon as I know what nights I'm teaching adult education, I will let you know of a day and time when you and I can work together. I will be teaching Miss Watson during school hours, just like the rest of her classmates. Miss Watson, I am entrusting that book to you. Take very good care of it, but don't bring it in to school until I tell you to do so, all right?"

"Yes, Mr. McGee," Miss Watson replied, hugging the book to her chest and beaming.

"If you do not have any questions for me, ma'am, miss, Sheriff Gibbs and I shall take our leave," Tim said.

"How d'you write it?" Miss Watson asked. Tim grinned.

"That's for me to know, and you to learn," he teased. Miss Watson pouted, and Tim could hear Gibbs chuckling behind him.

"Well, have a lovely afternoon, ma'am, miss, and I hope I'll see you tomorrow at the town meeting," Tim said, rising from the table. Gibbs did so as well, and nodded at Mrs. and Miss Watson.

"Julie, you need anything, you let me, DiNozzo, or McGee know, y'hear?" He said quietly.

"Of course, Sheriff, and thank you for everything you've done for us," Mrs. Watson replied. "Have a good evening, Mr. McGee, Sheriff Gibbs."

"Bye!" Miss Watson called.

As they jogged their horses back to the ranch, Tim mulled the meeting over and over in his mind. Miss Watson was going to be a joy to teach, he could tell that already, but Mrs. Watson… hopefully he would be able to restore her faith and trust in men, after her husband had been obviously cruel to her. She seemed determined, at least, and Tim knew that that was the first step.

"Michael Watson, Julie's ex-husband and Sandy's pa, was arrested last fall for fixin' up the kidnappin' and ransom of his wife and daughter," Gibbs said suddenly. "Town raised over five hundred dollars to get 'em back, but my gut said somethin' was wrong, so I staked out the bank in Ellsworth, and when the bastard himself came to collect the ransom, I arrested him for fraud and kidnappin'. Everyone in town knew he beat his wife, and Julie and Abby had set up some kind of deal where if he started on Sandy, Abby's to take her and run back East. Everyone knew, but we couldn't do a damn thing, 'cause he was too slick to get caught in the act, and she was too terrified of town ridicule to come to me. Sandy shoulda started school two years ago, but the bastard wouldn't let her."

Tim was quiet, trying to imagine his father not allowing him and Sarah to go to school. The old man had seemed glad to have them out of his hair during the day, as long as Tim did everything his father said the minute he said it, or better yet, before he said it. Tim couldn't count the number of times the old bastard had boxed his ears for not having supper on the table when he came home, no matter what time he came home (more often than not, this usually occurred in the wee hours of the morning, accompanied by the strong stench of alcohol). But it was a very rare day when the old man stopped them from going to school, for which Tim was absurdly grateful.

"W-Why are men like that a-allowed to be f-fathers?" He murmured.

"Dunno, McGee," Gibbs sighed, startling Tim slightly, since he hadn't expected the rancher to answer. "If I'd had my druthers, I'd shoot 'em all on sight."

Tim smiled, imagining Gibbs's reaction to his father.

Shoot on sight indeed.

* * *

><p><em>February 1, 1870<br>Roop's Point, Kansas_

_Town Hall_

Gibbs whistled lowly as he scanned the packed auditorium. "Leon, I dunno whether to be more impressed with you or McGee," he muttered. "Never seen this place so full."

"Be impressed with Miss Scuito," Vance replied, surveying the crowd with eyebrows raised. "Apparently she started the rumor that got everyone curious."

"The one about him being Wells's Time Traveler?"

"That's the one."

"Hope he knows his history."

The two men stood in the back corner of the room, hidden by the shadows provided by the candlelight. Gibbs could see his son and his boarder sitting on one of the benches on the small stage next to them, Tony bending a jumpy McGee's ears with what were probably tales of town meetings gone awry, and McGee looking half a step away from giving in to his nerves and bolting. He wondered for a second what the kid was doing teaching if he was so uneasy with getting up in front of a crowd, but then he remembered that McGee probably wasn't used to addressing crowds of this size. Roop's Point had a modest population of one hundred and four residents (_one hundred and five_, he reminded himself), and it seemed like every single one of them had shown up to take a gander at the new schoolteacher.

"Better get this rodeo goin', Leon," he said. "Any longer and he'll be on the next stage out of here."

Vance grumbled, but dutifully mounted the stage, holding up a hand to signal for quiet. Immediately everyone settled down, generating a wide eyed look of surprise from McGee, which caused Gibbs to chuckle.

"Everyone, you all know the debate that's been going back and forth for the past six months, ever since our esteemed schoolmaster, Mr. Robert Davis, announced his plans for retirement," Vance began. "Last I recall, the last motion was to place an advertisement in various newspapers back East for a replacement schoolteacher. However, the Good Lord has seen to provide a solution to our problem. Mr. Timothy McGee arrived in our town over a month ago, seeking employment. Mr. McGee possesses a teaching certificate from Harvard College, and experience in the classroom that goes beyond his years. He has been vetted by Sheriff Gibbs, Mr. Davis, and myself, and has proven himself to be a highly capable, knowledgeable, and motivated young man. With your blessing, he is to take over for Mr. Davis as schoolmaster next week. Mr. McGee, would you like to say a few words?"

And suddenly, the anxiety that had enveloped the young Irishman since he first set foot in the hall disappeared, and McGee smiled, nodded and stood, the two steps it took to stand beside Vance acquiring a bounce of confidence that impressed Gibbs. "Thank you, Mayor Vance," he said, his strong, clear voice easily carrying to the far corners of the hall. "And thank you, as well, to all those who helped welcome me here over the past month. Your kindness was very much appreciated. To everyone I haven't met yet, I look forward to getting to know you."

Gibbs scanned the crowd, looking for any negative expression that would alert him to possible trouble. McGee was the first obvious Irishman to settle in Roop's Point, and as such might end up being the target of hidden prejudices that had never before had an outlet. For the most part, however, the crowd was merely curious, and some of the younger children, Sandy Watson included, giggled at his unfamiliar accent.

"I suppose I should tell you a bit about myself," McGee continued, the same gentle, easy smile on his face that Gibbs had seen him wear the day before at the Watson homestead. "I did indeed go to Harvard College, graduating at the top of my class with a degree in mathematics as well as a teaching certificate. I am twenty three years old and well aware that I look younger. As you can probably tell by both my name and my accent, I was born in Ireland, although I have lived in America since I was six years old. And because I know that someone is going to ask, no, I am not a leprechaun, nor am I related to one, nor have I ever seen one. They are devilishly clever things, you know."

A small ripple of laughter went through the crowd, and Gibbs relaxed slightly. The kid certainly knew his way around a crowd.

"So, as any good teacher should do, I'm going to open myself up to questions," McGee announced. "I know you're all curious, and now is your chance to satisfy that curiosity. However, I reserve the right to refuse to answer any questions I choose, so choose wisely. If you have a question you'd like to ask, raise your hand, and I'll be sure to call on you. Please stand and state your name when I call on you, so that I'll know who you are if we meet again later. Go on then."

Almost immediately, hands went up, and McGee blinked in surprise before recovering himself and nodding at Abby, who was seated prominently in the front row. "Yes, miss?"

Abby stood with a flourish and grinned at McGee. "I'm Abby Scuito, and I'd just like to know… when's your birthday?"

McGee laughed and returned her cheeky grin. "January 26," he replied.

Gibbs frowned, thinking back to the twenty-sixth. A Wednesday, if he remembered right, DiNozzo had the morning duty shift. McGee had spent the entire morning devouring the contents of Gibbs's bookshelf, looking happier than Gibbs had ever seen him, like all he'd ever wanted was to spend the day reading. He'd made no mention of anything special about the day, hell, he'd barely spoken all day. He'd simply planted himself on the long chair in the main room, buried his nose in a stack of books, and hadn't moved.

_How must he have spent his birthdays if just sitting and reading all day was the best birthday he'd ever had?_ Gibbs wondered. Tony had made the proximity of his birthday well known every year since he'd been adopted, counting down each day as it passed. He'd driven everyone within hearing distance to distraction, but it had been worth it when the day had finally arrived and Gibbs gave him what was apparently his very first birthday present ever. But McGee… aside from an answer to a direct question, he hadn't made any mention of his birthday at all. It was as though he hadn't expected anything to happen even if he had said something.

_That's going to change_, Gibbs smirked as he watched a very smug Abby regain her seat.

McGee continued answering questions, ranging from teaching schedule to previous employment to family. McGee did answer the rather rude question about his family, albeit extremely vaguely, simply stating that his mother was dead, his father was disinterested, and he didn't know the whereabouts of his sister. His views on discipline generated some muttering, but no one openly challenged him, which seemed to disappoint McGee as much as it did Gibbs.

Finally, the questions petered out, and Vance brought the meeting to a close. As people began leaving, Gibbs watched as people descended upon McGee in droves, shaking his hand and slapping him on the back as they welcomed him to the town.

It was a very subdued McGee that followed Gibbs and Tony as they rode back to the ranch an hour later. Tony seemed content to fill the silence with meaningless chatter, commenting on all of the people the schoolteacher had met that evening, allowing Gibbs to really study the Irishman out of the corner of his eye. He didn't seem blue, just… contemplative, as their horses' shoes clip-clopped against the hard-packed, frozen dirt of the road.

"You still alive back there, Probie?" Tony asked.

"Hmm?" McGee blinked and seemed to come back to himself, and blushed when he realized that both Gibbs and Tony were staring at him. "Oh, aye, I am."

"Why do you say that?" Tony frowned in puzzlement. "What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?" McGee replied, equally puzzled.

"What you just said, that "eye" sound." Gibbs winced as Tony tried to replicate the strange word with his somewhat faded, but still present, New York accent. McGee did so as well.

"Oh, you mean _aye_," he realized. He thought about it for a minute. "There's not any form of "yes" or "no" in Irish, like you have in English. When I was learning English in Boston, one of the teachers in my primary school was from Scotland, and I guess I just picked it up. My parents always spoke Irish in the house anyway, so they never noticed it, and nobody ever tried to correct me until I got to college, which of course meant it was too late. After graduation, as I was traveling around trying to find work, I never thought about using it, and I guess people just assumed that it was a greenhorn thing that never got left on the boat."

He sat back in the saddle, gazing up at the clear night sky, so different from the sky back east. "I had a really good time tonight," he said quietly. "I never realized how nice it was."

"What was, McGee?" Gibbs asked gently.

McGee grinned at him, so brightly and with such happiness that it almost hurt to look at him. "Being accepted."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Well, this is the longest chapter so far (30 pages!), and the end of my explicit plot for what I'm hoping is at least three or four chapters. Now don't panic- I have a complete plot, but it's rather vague in some areas, due to the fact that this fic is supposed to take place over at least a year's worth of time. I have neither the time nor the inclination to write such a detailed plotline, so I now leave it to you, dear readers, to send me ideas for things that Tim and the gang can dosee/hear about between the months of February and approximately August or September in the year 1870. You can comment your idea, or if you really like it and don't want anyone but me stealing it, you can PM me your idea, along with your express written permission for me to use it. I will give credit to everyone whose idea I use, not to worry. Your ideas can be vague concepts, solidly detailed prompts, and everything in between. Don't worry about making it historically accurate- that's my job, and I'm happy to do it. So get those creative juices flowing!**

**On a side note, a reviewer of the previous chapter asked me if I was going to be shipping McAbby or McGiva in this fic. I hadn't really planned on shipping anything when I began writing this, however, I've come to the decision that I will be shipping McGiva. No offense to Abby and McAbby fans, but I've been greatly disappointed in her character the last few seasons, and I am of the firm belief that our Tim is much, much too good and mature for her. If she can get her act together and grow up a bit, I might possibly change my mind, however, until then, McGiva is my One True Pairing, and no one can convince me otherwise! **

**Except possibly McNozzo... but not in this fic. I'm not homophobic in any way, but I would rather not turn my fic into a re-write of _Brokeback Mountain_, thank you very much. Friendship, yes, romance, no. Sorry if this disappoints anyone.**

**Anyway, send me your ideas, and tune in on June 6th, 2012, for the next installment!**


	3. Education

Line in the Sand  
>An NCIS Fanfic<br>By 00AwkwardPenguin00  
>Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or anything associated with it.<p>

_**Author's Note: **_**(*Peeks out from behind computer*) Ummm... hi? (*waves*) First off, I'm so, so, so, so, a million times _so_ sorry for the... oh my G-d, it's been over a year, hasn't it?... incredibly late update. Unfortunately, I've had neither the time nor the motivation to work on this- and both of those things are my fault, the motivation thing especially. I love everyone on this site dearly, and you're all wonderful and supportive and give me horrible, awful cavities with your sweetness, but apparently being genetically predisposed to clinical depression screws up your brain chemistry and makes you look at all of these wonderful stats (49 reviews, _46 follows, bloody 35_ favorites?!) and go "_(le sigh) I can't do this, I'm too tired, I just barely managed to turn my f***ing computer _on, _I'll work on it tomorrow_" and then pretty much ignore everything that makes life awesome and/or livable for weeks on end. So, yeah. It got to the point where I just couldn't handle four college classes at a time, and had to drop out of the university I'd been waiting to go to since I was fifteen. But I'm better now than I was- I have a job that rocks and drives me bonkers at the same time, I've finally figured out how I'm getting the three degrees I'm planning to get (very, very, very, very slowly- like one or two courses at a time slowly), and I've started writing again! YAY! So, without further ado, here is the very long awaited Chapter 3 of _Line in the Sand_. This chapter is dedicated to Nikara, who reviewed with a request to see Tim's teaching methods. Thanks so much for your patience, love, and I hope this satisfies! And for everyone else who has reviewed and/or PM'ed me with encouragement and ideas, thank you so, so much for your loyalty, and I'll do my absolute best not to keep you waiting like that ever again.**

**Tootles!**

**AwkPen**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 3<strong>_

_**Education**_

* * *

><p><em>February 7, 1870<br>Roop's Point_

_Roop's Point Schoolhouse_

Jared Vance had already taken his seat when he realized that the man at the chalkboard wasn't Mr. Davis.

"Hey, who's that?" Carson asked, sliding into his seat on Jared's right.

"I reckon he's the new teacher Daddy's been tellin' Momma 'bout," Jared replied. "He don't look much older than Kody- wonder how long he's gonna last."

"I believe I'll last long enough," the man said, not turning around from writing the date at the upper left corner of the enormous chalkboard. "The day's barely begun, Mr. Vance- don't count your chickens before they hatch."

Jared and Carson stared at each other, neither willing to ask the other how the man had known Jared's name.

The small schoolhouse quickly filled up, each student stomping the snow from his shoes and hanging up his wrap by the large cast iron stove in the back corner before taking his seat quietly and efficiently. The man had sat down at the large desk in front of the chalkboard and was eyeing the classroom with an unreadable expression, green eyes darting here and there. When the door stopped opening every few seconds, and the students had quieted down and were looking at him quizzically, the man stood and stepped to the center of the room. He clasped his large, thin hands behind his back, and began to recite, his eyes distant and slowly moving from side to side as though he were reading something only he could see.

"_I was looking a long while for the history of the past for myself_ _and for  
>these chants- and now I have found it.<br>It is not in those paged fables in the libraries, (them I neither accept  
>nor reject);<br>It is no more in the legends than in all else;  
>It is in the present- it is this earth to-day;<br>It is in Democracy- in this America- the Old World also;  
>It is in the life of one man or one woman to-day, the average man of to-day;<br>It is languages, social customs, literatures, arts;  
>It is the broad show of artificial things, ships, machinery, politics,<br>creeds, modern improvements, and the interchange of nations,  
>All for the average man of to-day."<em>

He blinked, and looked around, smirking at the befuddled expressions Jared and his classmates all shared. "That was a poem entitled "The Past-Present", penned by Walt Whitman in 1868," he said. "We will be reading several poems such as that over the course of your time in my classroom, as well as several selections of prose of varying degrees of difficulty based on your levels of expertise. However, before we start down that path, a few housekeeping tasks."

The man strode back to the desk and picked up a small notebook. "When I call your name, and please forgive me if I mispronounce it, I would like you to stand and tell me your grade level, your birth date, and your favorite thing to do in your free time," he said, smiling. "I'll begin. My name is Timothy McGee. I'm your teacher, I was born on January 26, 1846, and in my free time, I love to read." He glanced at the notebook. "Kelp, Angela."

Angela, a slim girl with strawberry blonde hair and a round face, stood from her seat on the right side of the second to last row. "Here, Mr. McGee. I'm in tenth grade, my birth date is May 21, 1858, and my favorite thing to do during free time is paint."

"Thank you, Miss Kelp, I look forward to seeing your artwork," Mr. McGee replied kindly, nodding as he scribbled madly in the notebook. "Lee, Amanda."

A skinny Chinese girl tentatively rose from her seat on the right side of the first row. "Here, Mr. McGee," she whispered, practically quaking where she stood.

Mr. McGee looked at her with an unreadable expression, and Jared tensed in his seat. Poor Amanda was absolutely terrified of men, the way he was terrified of cattle stampedes, and could barely bring herself to put three words on a string in public. Mr. Davis, the schoolmaster before Mr. McGee, had simply ignored her, while a few men in town, usually the ones around Mr. McGee's age, would yell at her and slap her to get her to answer. Jared liked Amanda, for all of her mousy quietness, and hated it when people treated her badly. He wasn't sure yet what to think of Mr. McGee, but he knew that the way he treated Amanda would figure greatly in that decision.

"Are you all right, Miss Lee?" Mr. McGee said quietly, his voice kind. Amanda nodded, staring at the floor.

Jared couldn't stand it anymore. "Mr. McGee?" He called out, raising his hand. Mr. McGee's bright green eyes snapped in his direction.

"Yes, Mr. Vance, is it?" He asked blandly.

"Sir, Amanda don't talk much," Jared said. "If she don't mind, I can answer her questions for her."

Mr. McGee looked thoughtful, which Jared decided was the best possible outcome he could've gotten for his impulsive outburst. Mr. McGee didn't seem like a violent man, but he was tall, and looked pretty strong despite his skinniness. He really didn't want to get paddled on the first day of school with the new teacher.

"I appreciate your concern for your classmate, Mr. Vance," Mr. McGee said slowly. "To answer your question, yes, you may answer Miss Lee's questions in her stead, just for today. Miss Lee," he turned back to Amanda, his voice going soft and kind again, "I would like to speak to you privately a bit later. Would you like someone to accompany you?"

Amanda nodded, her face pale.

"Would you like Mr. Vance to accompany you, or someone else?"

"Jared, please," Amanda whispered.

"Mr. Vance, do you mind?" Mr. McGee asked, glancing back at Jared.

"No sir, Mr. McGee," Jared replied, shooting a reassuring smile at Amanda, who smiled timidly back.

"Good man, Mr. Vance," Mr. McGee said, grinning broadly at Jared. "That's very kind of you. Now, back to the matter at hand, if you please."

Jared rattled off the answers he knew Amanda would give if she wasn't so scared: she was in kindergarten (Mr. Davis had basically ignored her since the day she started school, and therefore she'd never had a chance to go up the grade levels), her birth date was December 4, 1862, and her favorite thing to do during free time was sewing.

"Thank you, Miss Lee, Mr. Vance, you may have a seat," Mr. McGee said. "Meyers, Kody."

Nobody answered, and Mr. McGee frowned. "Mr. Meyers."

"Mr. McGee, sir, Kody don't come to school much," Noah called out.

"Thank you, Mr. … Taffett," Mr. McGee said, still frowning, but more in confusion than annoyance. "Does anyone know any particular reason why Mr. Meyers is absent today?"

Jared raised his hand, and Mr. McGee nodded at him. "Kody could be stuck at home takin' care of his daddy, Mr. McGee," he said, trying not to get the older boy, despite his meanness, in trouble with the new teacher.

"He's probably drunk," Carson drawled carelessly, and Jared gritted his teeth in an effort not to smack his best friend silly.

Mr. McGee frowned, and scribbled something in his notebook. "Taffett, Noah," he called.

Noah slouched to his feet, hands in his pockets. "Here, sir," he called lazily. "I'm in seventh grade, my birth date is October 18, 1858, and my favorite thing to do during free time is skip rocks in the stream a few miles from town."

"A most relaxing pastime, Mr. Taffett, good choice," Mr. McGee said, smiling at Jared's friend, and Noah fairly puffed up with pride at the praise before sitting down primly. "Tanner, Zachary."

A tiny boy with a very stony expression on his face wriggled off of his seat and disappeared under his desk, reappearing in the aisle beside it. "Here, Mr. McGee," he said, and Jared had to stifle a grin at the ridiculousness of the boy's somber tone with his young, high voice. "Kindergarten, February 23, 1865, and carving."

"Rather stoic this morning, are we?" Mr. McGee murmured, scribbling once more in his notebook. Jared bit back a snicker- he was beginning to like this man. "At some point, Mr. Tanner, I'll introduce you to Sheriff Gibbs. He does a fair bit of carving; you could learn something from him. Taylor, Carson?"

Carson fairly leaped off his seat, nearly upending the bench with Jared still sitting on it. "Here, sir," he called with a broad grin. "I'm in seventh grade, my birth date is July 16, 1858, and I like to ride horses and go to the theater in my free time."

"Good Lord, it's another Tony," Mr. McGee muttered. "Thank you, Mr. Taylor, and do try to keep from upsetting your seat and dumping your poor seatmate on the floor? It's far too early in the morning for anyone to begin collecting schoolyard bruises."

"Sorry, Mr. McGee, sir," Carson replied, not looking sorry in the least.

Mr. McGee seemed to think the same thing, since he snorted in a very un-adult-like manner and scribbled once more into his notebook. "Vance, Jared."

"Here, sir," Jared answered, standing. "I'm in seventh grade, my birth date is August 7, 1858, and my favorite thing to do in free time is to walk 'round town with my daddy."

Mr. McGee smiled, somewhat sadly, Jared thought, and nodded at him. "Your father is a fine man, Mr. Vance," he said quietly, and Jared had the odd feeling that the man didn't say that about a lot of men. "Vance, Lily."

Jared's little sister bounced up from her front row seat and beamed at Mr. McGee. "Here, sir!" She piped. "I'm in first grade, my birth date is April 24, 1861, and my favorite thing to do in free time is play with my grass people."

"I look forward to meeting your grass people, Miss Vance," Mr. McGee said, returning her grin with one of his own, making him look even younger than he already was. And that clinched it for Jared- very few adults besides his parents and Sheriff Gibbs were so kind to his baby sister, whose high energy and somewhat distracted manner made her the despair of many adults who tried to get her to sit down and focus. Lily seemed to realize this as well, because she bounced on her seat, lit up like a birthday candle. Mr. McGee chuckled as he scribbled in his notebook. "If you can stand to sit still for a few more moments, Miss Vance, we will get up and play a game as soon as I am finished taking the roll. Five minutes, all right?"

"Yes sir, Mr. McGee," Lily said, her bouncing diminishing to a wriggle.

"Watson, Sandra?"

A thin, pale girl with light brown hair slowly rose from her seat in front of Jared, and stared straight ahead. "Here, sir," she said quietly. "I'm in kindergarten, my birth date is September 12, 1862, and my favorite thing to do in free time is sing."

"I'm sure you have a wonderful voice, Miss Watson," Mr. McGee said, smiling as he scribbled once more into his notebook. Finally, he snapped it shut and placed it back on his large desk. "All right, everyone, as I told Miss Vance a few minutes ago, we're going to play a game. I'm going to play some music, and while I'm doing so, you're going to dance. You can hop around the room, you can jig, you can walk, you can perform the Hokey Pokey- as long as you're in some sort of motion around the room. When I stop playing, you are to freeze in place. The first person I catch moving, has to answer a question for me. Does everyone understand?"

"Yes, Mr. McGee!" Everyone chorused. Jared was intrigued- they'd never played a game during school before. During recess, perhaps, but never inside the classroom and certainly never when they were supposed to be doing work.

"I only have three rules," Mr. McGee continued, placing a fiddle case on the desk and opening it. "First, you absolutely may _not_ run in the classroom. Anyone I catch running will be made to sit in the corner behind my desk and will not be allowed to participate. Second, you must watch where you are going. Some of us move more slowly than the rest, or are smaller than the rest, and I will not have any injuries in my classroom on my first day, thank you very much. Thirdly, you must be perfectly honest about whether or not you move after the music stops. I cannot see everything, but I will not be taken advantage of. If you moved after the music stopped, you must make it known. Now, time for some fun. Is everyone ready?"

"Yes, Mr. McGee!" Jared and his fellow students replied, and Mr. McGee smiled and put the fiddle to his chin.

"Here we go," he said, and began playing a rousing rendition of _Yankee Doodle_.

Jared had never had so much fun in school before. Sure, it was a bit embarrassing to reveal how badly he danced, but he felt better when he realized that Carson and Noah were having as much trouble as he was. He nearly had a heart attack when he realized that Amanda was actually _smiling_, and dancing with Lily.

At first, the music started and stopped quickly, catching everyone off guard, but soon they learned not to be surprised, and after several tries, no one made any mistakes. Jared was relieved to learn that the questions Mr. McGee asked weren't too difficult, but they weren't exactly easy, either, and a few times he and his classmates had to concede defeat and say, "I don't know." Mr. McGee never penalized anyone for this, simply smiling and reassuring them that they would learn. Gradually, the musical interludes grew longer, once again catching Jared and his classmates off guard, until everyone had answered a question no less than five times.

Finally, Mr. McGee finished playing the song, having restarted after every freeze, and Jared and his friends slumped, panting, into their seats.

"Gee, Mr. McGee, you play swell," Noah gasped out.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Taffett," Mr. McGee replied, smiling as he placed his fiddle on top of the bookshelf next to his desk. "Now, is everyone sufficiently aired out? No cobwebs in our brains?"

"No sir," squeaked Amanda timidly.

"Very good," Mr. McGee shot Amanda a gentle grin, and Jared hadn't thought that the man could look any happier. "Now then, to business."

The rest of the morning flew by, as Jared, Carson, and Noah attempted to unravel a dastardly mathematics problem together. They had only gotten part of the way through when Mr. McGee broke through the noise of the classroom with a few high notes on his fiddle, nearly bursting Jared's ears and causing Sandy to cover her own.

"All right, everyone, time for dinner," he announced. "If you live here in town, you're free to go home for the next hour and a half, however, I want you back here before the tenth toll of the bell. If you don't live in town, I'd much rather you'd stay here, because it appears that Jack Frost has deigned to pay us a visit." He pointed with his playing stick at one of the windows, where snow could be seen gently falling. Another few piercing notes on the fiddle instantly silenced the sudden chorus of delighted gasps and shrieks. "Yes, it's very beautiful, I know, but what looks pretty now can be dangerous later, so anyone who does not live immediately in town is to stay here. If you didn't bring your dinner, Miss David was most kind enough to provide us with a stew. All right everyone, dismissed."

Jared left his slate and copy book on his desk, and hurriedly helped Lily into her wraps before throwing on his own. Daddy always had his dinner in his office in the Town Hall, if they were lucky, they might be able to join him. He couldn't wait to tell his daddy how much he liked Mr. McGee.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ 

Tim saw Mr. Vance eagerly suiting up to go outside, his younger sister already wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon, and knew that he needed to seize the opportunity quickly.

"Mr. Vance," he called over the din of his students (_His students!_ he thought with a thrill), "and Miss Lee, may I see you both for a moment?"

Tim saw a panicked expression cross Miss Lee's expression briefly, until Mr. Vance gently touched her arm and gave her a reassuring smile. Tim found himself smiling as well, thoroughly enjoying watching their interaction. Mr. Vance turned to his sister and said something, and Miss Vance nodded and skipped out the door. Mr. Vance then gently grasped Miss Lee's hand, and they wove their way through the classroom, dodging Mr. Taylor, who was attempting to balance a very large bowl of stew on his head.

Tim chuckled before calling out, "Mr. Taylor, this is a classroom, not a circus ring, so take that bowl off your head, if you please. If you must insist on practicing your balance in such a matter, remember that if you are unsuccessful, _you_ will be the one responsible for cleaning up the mess."

Mr. Taylor immediately took the bowl off of his head, a sheepish expression on his face. By this time, Mr. Vance and Miss Lee had appeared in front of his desk, and Tim crouched down so that he was looking up at them both, eliciting a surprised look from Mr. Vance, and thought for a moment about what he wanted to say.

"Miss Lee," he said quietly, looking at her face, even though she wouldn't meet his eyes, "if at any point you are uncomfortable in my classroom, please let me know, either through Mr. Vance if he is willing, or some other way. I want you to enjoy coming to school, to feel comfortable and safe here, and if you don't feel that way, I want to know what I can do to help you come to feel that way. I do not yell at my students if I can help it, I do not strike my students for any reason, and I will not ignore a student simply because he or she is not comfortable in my classroom or presence. You have no reason to fear me, Miss Lee, although I know how little that really matters to you right now, since you don't know me well enough to believe what I say. However, I will say it every day if I must, and eventually I hope you'll come to believe it. Do you have any questions for me?"

Miss Lee blinked, meeting his eyes for the first time, and studied him for a few minutes before turning to Mr. Vance and whispering in his ear. He nodded, and pinned dark brown eyes, magnified slightly by large, round wire-rimmed spectacles, on Tim.

"Amanda wanna know who hit you, Mr. McGee," he said, as Miss Lee hid slightly behind him.

Tim smiled. Miss Lee, despite her timid behavior, appeared to be quite a discerning young lady. "My father was a drunk, Miss Lee," he explained, "and very frustrated with his fortunes. He often took his anger and frustration out on me, since I wouldn't let him near my baby sister." He paused, and then, very quietly asked, "Who hit you, Miss Lee?"

Miss Lee blinked at him again, then whispered once more in Mr. Vance's ear. The boy's eyes widened in shock, and his dark African complexion paled significantly as he swallowed heavily.

"Amanda say a bunch of men took her when she was a babe, and she grew up with 'em hittin' her and slappin' her 'round," Mr. Vance said shakily. "They did other things to her too, but I don' wanna say those, 'cause they're real bad things. Amanda say that when her big sis and Sheriff Gibbs found her, she don't speak a word, 'cause she was scared to get hit again. That was three year ago, and men like you still hit her 'cause they want her to talk normal."

"Men like me… men my age, you mean?" Tim asked, because he had to think about something other than that sweet little girl, just a year younger than his own baby sister, growing up in such brutality or else he was going to put his fist through the wall, and that would only serve to scare both of them even more than they already were.

Mr. Vance nodded, and Miss Lee burrowed further into his back.

Tim bit back a sigh. "Miss Lee, thank you for sharing this with me," he said quietly. "I promise that I will do everything in my power to ensure that you feel safe and comfortable here, and I hope that you come to trust me enough to speak to me yourself. You're both dismissed."

Mr. Vance nodded, and fixed Tim with a piercing gaze. "And thankee, for listenin' to Amanda insteada ignorin' her or slappin' her 'round," he said. "Daddy says you live with Sheriff Gibbs. Can you ask him to 'rrest anybody who hits her? I think that'd make her feel awful better, Mr. McGee."

Tim stared at Mr. Vance for a split second before recovering himself. "You can rest assured, Mr. Vance, that I will be bringing the matter to the Sheriff's attention this very night," he said firmly. "When I told Miss Lee that I would do everything in my power to help her feel safe, I did mean absolutely everything."

Mr. Vance nodded. "Thankee 'gain, Mr. McGee. C'mon, Amanda, you're comin' to Town Hall with me and Lily and havin' dinner with us and my daddy," he said, gently grasping Miss Lee's hand and leading her away. She quickly whispered in his ear, and he grinned and nodded at her. "Sure she can, if she ain't too busy workin'. Let's go ask her."

Tim watched them wrap up and leave, memories playing behind his eyes, until he happened to spot Miss Watson attempting to reach the ladle of the stewpot, standing dangerously on her tiptoes and searching around with ghosting fingers.

"Miss Watson, if you would be so kind to wait a moment, I would be very happy to assist you," he called, making his way over to the stove and snatching her hand away before she stuck it in the wrong place and burned it, ignoring the dark scowl that appeared on her face.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ 

_David's Saloon_

Both the Mayor and the Sheriff were sitting at the bar in the saloon when Robert trudged in after school let out for the day, stomping the fresh snow from his shoes and trousers. He barely looked at them as he navigated through the warm, crowded room, deep in thought about his observations of the young McGee.

He'd never seen someone so comfortable in such a chaotic environment as a classroom. At first glance, he would never have labeled McGee as someone like that. The man was so skinny and pale that he looked like a stiff wind would blow him right over, but he handled those children, some of whom Robert himself had given up on, masterfully. Quite frankly, using the violin to arrest attention was a stroke of genius, as was the game he'd started out with.

"So, whaddya think?" The Sheriff asked, barely managing to hide a smirk.

Robert shook his head, sitting down heavily beside the Mayor. "Sheriff, I don't know where you found that boy, but damned if I've never seen a more natural born teacher in my life," he sighed. "He's young, and he's a bit rough around the edges, but the only things he needs in those respects are time and experience. I'd be a fool to get rid of him, now or ever."

The Sheriff turned to the Mayor and grinned. "You owe me five dollars," he said.

The Mayor rolled his eyes and handed the older man a coin. "Go crazy, Gibbs," he grumbled. Turning back to Robert, he grinned sheepishly. "I'm very glad you said so, Robert, since both of my children seem to think that the sun rises and sets on McGee's bootlaces. I don't want to imagine the uproar I'd hear from the students if you tried to get rid of him."

"That mean you're done watchin' him like a hawk watches a mouse?" The Sheriff asked.

"Yes, I've seen all I need," Robert replied. "As of this moment, I'm officially retired."

The Mayor and the Sheriff both grinned broadly, and the Sheriff flicked the winnings of his bet over to Robert. "Here, Davis, get yourself a couple rounds and celebrate," he said, sliding off of his stool.

Robert blinked and caught the coin mostly by accident. "Thank you, Sheriff, I think I will," he said slowly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd tasted alcohol… he'd had to set an example for his students, after all. But now he was retired… he could relax… it was a rather nice feeling.

"Miss David," he called, "a round of your finest brandy."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ 

_Roop's Point Schoolhouse_

Gibbs entered the slightly dilapidated building to find McGee sitting at the large desk in front of the chalkboard, scribbling frantically in a notebook that looked like it'd seen as much wear and tear as its owner had.

"Still here, McGee?" He asked, and the younger man jumped and nearly upended his inkbottle.

"Er, aye, B-Boss," he stammered, blinking sheepishly at him, "n-night class tonight."

Gibbs nodded, studying his boarder. The kid looked exhausted, but satisfied at the same time. "Kids run you ragged?"

"T-They wouldn't be s-so if they d-didn't," McGee replied with a small smirk. "B-But it's worth it i-if they enjoy themselves w-while learning at the s-same time."

"Whatcha writing there?" Gibbs came up carefully behind the younger man and peered over his shoulder. However, the words, while well formed and certainly legible, were in some language that Gibbs couldn't read- most likely Irish.

"Oh, j-just some observations about the c-children," McGee said quietly. "The w-way they behaved, w-what they enjoyed, w-what they disliked, their r-reactions to things I s-said or did, their progress i-in their studies. I-It helps me p-plan lessons, and d-determine if anything is w-wrong if they b-behave differently than w-what I normally observe."

Gibbs blinked. He knew McGee was the scientific type, but he'd never thought that he'd use that to teach. "Impressive," he remarked.

"Thank you," McGee replied, scribbling once more. Gibbs leaned against the chalkboard (first making sure that it was free of chalk and chalk dust), and watched him, noting in surprise when he switched the pen over to his left hand and started up again like he'd never stopped.

A few minutes later, McGee suddenly paused in his scribbling, placing his pen down and leaning back in his chair. He began muttering rapidly in Irish, staring out the windows in the front of the schoolhouse. Gibbs thought he caught the names "Lee" and "Kody Meyers" somewhere in the mass of soft murmuring.

"Michelle Lee come see you today?" Gibbs asked, taking a stab in the dark at what the younger man could possibly be muttering about.

The rapid murmuring stopped as the Irishman turned wide, surprised green eyes on the older man. Then he blinked, and shook his head. "No, but I d-did have the pleasure to speak t-to Amanda Lee," he replied.

This time it was Gibbs's turn to be surprised, although he was much better at hiding it. "Amanda actually spoke to you?"

"In a w-way," McGee murmured vaguely. "I asked q-questions, Miss Lee whispered the a-answers in Mr. Vance's ear, and Mr. Vance r-relayed them back to me. It was not an ideal s-situation, but it was a promising start. At l-least she didn't become completely unresponsive, which I w-wouldn't have blamed her for in the least." Fierce green eyes pinned his, as dark brown eyebrows furrowed furiously. "W-Were you aware, Sheriff, that Miss Lee's elective mutism has been prolonged and exacerbated by the treatment she's been receiving from Mr. Davis and other townsmen? Mr. Vance has told me explicitly that she has been deliberately sneered at and ignored by Mr. Davis, and routinely slapped by townsmen in an effort to quote "get her to talk normal" unquote?"

Gibbs wanted to sigh, but instead met the Irishman's gaze calmly and said, "Yeah, I was."

He didn't think it was possible for the normally placid younger man to look even more irate, but then again, he was Irish, and the Irish were infamous for their explosive tempers. "Do you mean to tell me, Sheriff, that you were aware of this, and yet did _nothing?_"

"My hands were and are tied, Mr. McGee," Gibbs replied coolly, glaring right back at the red-faced teacher. Then he softened his gaze. "I hate it as much as you do, son, but I can't arrest someone for assault unless I have physical proof or an eyewitness account."

A muttered Irish curse brought a smirk to his lips, and he waited a few beats before adding, "But I _can_ open an investigation, if ya think it'll help. Gotta warn ya, though, can't promise much jail time, or even if we'll have much of a case. People 'round here don't take kindly to havin' their "private affairs" bein' poked around in."

"How on earth does routine minor abuse of a little girl qualify as "private affairs"?" McGee grumbled, shaking his head. "No, if you don't think you'll get much of a case, it might be best to wait a bit. The poor girl needs some time to get used to things here, before we try changing anything out there. I just promised Mr. Vance that I would bring it to your attention tonight. Now, what do you know about Kody Meyers?"

"Kody not show up today?" He asked.

"No, and when I asked the class where he might be, Mr. Vance said that he might be taking care of his father, and Mr. Taylor said something about him being drunk again," McGee explained, frowning worriedly.

Gibbs frowned as well. "Kody's the son of the town drunk," he said. "If the boy ain't drunk himself, he's takin' care of his pa or workin' the homestead to keep the bank from foreclosin' on 'em. Boy's ma died four years ago, causin' Ken, Kody's pa, to crawl into a bottle. He ain't taken a peek out since."

Gibbs could read the stark alarm in McGee's eyes before the boy had even opened his mouth. "Is Kody all right? Does he need help? His father hasn't hurt him, has he?"

"Hold on just a minute, McGee," Gibbs said. "Kody's the violent drunk in the family, not Ken. Boy's fine, just in over his head."

McGee released a gusty sigh of relief and slumped back in his chair. "Thank G-d," he said quietly. "So, what's been done that hasn't worked?"

Gibbs cocked an eyebrow at the odd question. "Don't ya mean, _what do we do?_"

"There's no point in following an avenue of inquiry that's already been disproven," McGee replied. "Worse is following it multiple times despite its obvious failure. Knowing what's been done before can help clear the way to a solution that actually works."

Well, Gibbs couldn't argue with that logic. "'Bout six months after Kody's ma, Angela, died, Kody was found full as a tick and shootin' his pa's rifle in the air right in the middle of Main Street, hollerin' somethin' about the damn angels holdin' his ma hostage. A few days in lockup dried him out, but when Tony and I took him home, we found his pa passed out on the floor of their shanty, stinkin' so badly of booze you could smell it half a mile away. A few families 'round town took Kody in, but it never lasted very long. He'd run off, or do somethin' to cause the family to kick him out or hand him off to someone else. Eventually, no one wanted to take him, and he's spent the last three and a half years splittin' his time between takin' care of his pa, workin' their farm, and drying out in my jail cells. Boy's spent more time in my jail than a good bunch of men twice his age. Everyone's given up on him."

McGee's eyes narrowed, and to Gibbs's shock, the normally placid young man practically growled. "Has anyone ever tried to _talk_ to him? Instead of punishing him for acting out, has anyone tried to treat the _cause_, instead of just the symptoms?"

For a moment, Gibbs thought he was talking to Ducky, but furious green eyes immediately banished that notion. He swallowed heavily, suddenly realizing his mistake, the mistake every single person in town was guilty of making. "Can't say anyone has, McGee."

McGee's eyes pierced him for a few more seconds, before closing as he sighed heavily. "The damage has already been done," he said quietly. "It'll take much longer for him to start trusting people again, after four years of people simply pushing him away. He's going to be angry, and belligerent, and he's not going to listen to anything anyone has to say. He'll be looking for proof that people care about him, actual, physical proof, not words. Words are just sounds, they don't mean anything, really."

Gibbs's brow furrowed. "Harvard?" He asked.

"No."

The older man blinked. McGee's expression was hard, his eyes distant, voice flinty.

"Experience."

Gibbs nodded slowly, sensing that the conversation needed a new direction. "Davis is retirin' for good," he said suddenly, and hurriedly hid a smirk at the wide, surprised green eyes that whirled around to land on him.

"I've still got two days!" He gasped. "He was supposed to observe for two more days! How can he make a decision this quickly? What if I mess up?"

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Man was singin' your praises in David's, McGee," he growled. "Davis don't compliment easy, but he couldn't stop goin' on and on 'bout you."

"But… but…"

"No buts, boy," Gibbs replied. "He decided so soon because he's _confident_ in your abilities, McGee. He's confident in _you_. Dammit boy, you're a fine teacher, and he knows that with only a day of watchin' ya with these kids. He never woulda considered hirin' you in the first place if he didn't think you could hack it."

McGee sighed. "Can I hack it?"

"Doin' a pretty good job so far, I reckon," Gibbs replied simply. "And I'd be the first one to tell ya otherwise."

The smile McGee gave him was tentative, but grew stronger when Gibbs smirked at him in return.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ 

_Roop's Point Schoolhouse_

Tony jumped down from Ferarri's saddle and picketed him a few feet from the fence surrounding the schoolyard. It was McGee's first night of adult education classes, and Gibbs had sent Tony to make sure that none of the field- and ranch- hands that made up a majority of the students in the classes made trouble for the younger man trying to get them to learn to read.

He walked up to the whitewashed board fence and leaned on his forearms on it, watching the slow trickle of people going into the schoolhouse. He hadn't set foot in the building since he was twenty-two, four years ago. He and Davis hadn't gotten along at all, which had made trying to learn the basics like reading and math hell for the both of them. Gibbs had finally stopped making him go after he'd threatened to burn the place down, Deputy Sheriff or no, and he'd walked proudly out of the building with an eighth grade education.

When it finally looked like nobody else was going to show up, Tony gave Ferrari a pat and moseyed into the schoolhouse, planting himself in the back of the room and leaning against the wall next to the door. Almost all of the desks in the room were full of murmuring field- and ranch-hands, and McGee himself stood in his vest and shirtsleeves with his back to the room at the chalkboard, writing something in some fancy script Tony had never seen before and couldn't make heads or tails of. When he finished, he placed the chalk back on the little wooden running board beneath the chalkboard and turned to face the room, hands clasped primly behind his back.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he called, his tone pleasant enough, but with an odd undertone that Tony hadn't heard him use before. Whatever it was, it did a damn good job of silencing the room, something that both shocked and greatly impressed Tony. "If you didn't already know, my name is Timothy McGee, and I will be teaching adult education on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. Tonight, and every Monday night until spring planting begins, we will be covering reading skills, both the mechanics of reading and reading comprehension. I am now going to arrange seating by skill level, so that I have a good understanding of what everyone needs to work on the most."

Tony watched silently as McGee patiently tested the skill level of each man in the room, smiling encouragement when needed and scowling firmly when anyone tried to downplay their skills to get into easier classes. Finally, each man had been given a new seat in the classroom based on how well they'd done, and McGee set his gaze on Tony.

"Deputy DiNozzo, please recite the alphabet," he asked.

"Huh?" Tony blinked, surprised. "Wait, I ain't here for schoolin', Gibbs just sent me here to keep an eye on things for ya, McGee."

The younger man's gaze grew chilling, and Tony found himself wanting to squirm under the cold green eyes.

"Deputy DiNozzo," McGee replied, carefully pronouncing every syllable in a tone that made Tony cringe inwardly, "I am perfectly capable of keeping my classroom under control, a fact of which Sheriff Gibbs is very much aware. Therefore, if he sent you here, then he meant for you to attend to the studies I set you as a student, not to doze next to the stove and take up valuable space in my classroom. If you refuse to follow my instructions while in this building, then I will ask you to leave. Am I clear?"

Tony gulped, trying to figure out when the timid, stuttering younger man of last week became this fierce, intimidating schoolmaster who could give Gibbs a run for his money. He thought for a split second whether or not he should just leave and risk Gibbs's wrath, but quickly decided that it wasn't worth the concussion's worth of headslaps he'd get for leaving his post.

"Yessir, crystal," he replied.

"Now then, the alphabet, if you please, Deputy."

Tony recited the letters, and then read the progressively difficult sentences written in normal writing on the board. He had to stop when he got to the fancy script writing, but McGee seemed impressed all the same, although he didn't say anything. He found himself seated near the back of the classroom, next to Jimmy Palmer, of all people.

"What the hell are you doin' here, Gremlin?" Tony whispered, as McGee began lecturing.

"Dr. Mallard is always saying that I need to work on my reading skills, and I was curious about Mr. McGee's teaching style," Palmer shrugged. "Miss Amanda couldn't stop talking about him."

"Speaking of, how's your courtship with Ms. Lee goin'? We gonna hear weddin' bells soon?" Tony teased.

Before Palmer could reply, McGee appeared out of thin air in front of them, scowling darkly. "Deputy DiNozzo, Mr. Palmer, I expect your complete attention when within my classroom," he growled. "If I catch the pair of you conversing during a lecture again, you will both be asked to leave, understood?"

Both Tony and Palmer nodded dumbly, while inwardly, Tony fumed. He'd _told_ Gibbs that he was done with book learning- as long as he could read wanted posters, case files, and inventories, could count up steers for herding, and could calculate bullets and prices, he didn't need to know how to read a G-d damn _book_.

A small packet of papers landed on the desk in front of him, and Tony blinked at McGee in confusion.

"Your assignment for the evening," McGee explained. "Read it, solve it, and then report to me and tell me about it. Once you've done that, you're free to go." He turned to Palmer and handed him another packet, repeating his instructions.

Tony sighed, and opened up the packet. _Case File: Deep Six- Murder on the New York Docks._

_Well, that's different,_ Tony thought, scanning the clear longhand on the pages. Davis had made him read ridiculous fairy tales and fables, things the little kids in his class had eaten up, but only promised boredom of the highest degree for a fourteen year old who had never set foot in a classroom before. But this- this actually looked _interesting._

Before Tony knew it, he had his notebook out and was frantically scribbling down notes, reading through the file once, twice, three times. The victim was an Irish dockworker, twenty years old, stabbed once in the chest and left for dead on the Boston docks where he worked. Time of death was thought to be around three in the morning, caused by his heart being sliced clean open. No witnesses, although some of the other workers had said that they'd seen the man get into an argument with another man the day before. The victim had no family, lived alone in a room in a boarding house five minutes walk from the docks, and was generally even tempered, well mannered, and well liked by all. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for his death. The murder weapon, a large carving knife typically used by butchers, was found at the man's feet.

For a moment, Tony was stumped. This just seemed like a random dockside killing, common enough for that area of New York City. But something in the back of his mind and deep in his gut told him to look again, because if he knew McGee, then there had to be something more.

_What about the guy he was arguing with the day before he died?_ Tony wondered. He leafed through the packet to see if McGee had thought to include that line of questioning. Sure enough, he found a page describing a witness's statement about the argument, and a drawing of the victim's opponent.

_Male, 21-22, well-off looking but not well-to-do, very strong arms_, Tony thought, studying the drawing. He turned to the witness statement. _Never seen him before… ranting and cursing at victim… said something about a party… victim scoffed and brushed man off… man screamed something about getting what he [the victim] deserved and stormed off…_

_Party… party… what kind of party?_ Tony mused, only slightly more confused than he'd been before.

There had to be something he was missing, a connection he wasn't making. McGee was the most analytical, thorough man he'd ever met- whether or not he'd made the case up, he would've made damn sure to have every single scrap of information he could get his hands on before turning it over to a _real_ investigator. But he was also one of those creative writer types who could find meaning and purpose in a rock. If this case had been made up (and Tony was pretty sure it was, he'd never seen a case file so damn detailed), then there had to be a reason for every single word. McGee was obsessive like that.

_Wait… an _Irish_ dockworker… there's a reason McGee wants me to know that…_ Tony blinked, and suddenly everything fell into place.

_An Irish dockworker…_

_A __**well-off**__, but not __**well-to-do**__ young man…_

_A party…_

_Getting what he deserved…_

"The bastard's not _going_ to a party, he's a member _of_ a party," Tony hissed triumphantly. "He's a nativist."

Now that he'd figured it out, Tony couldn't make out how he hadn't seen it. New York was a hotbed of crime and gang violence, exacerbated by the influx of new immigrants over the last several years. For whatever reason, a growing faction of people had decided that America didn't need any foreigners, and were very, very opposed, sometimes to the point of violence, to immigration, especially towards Catholics, primarily from Ireland, but really of any nationality. To be perfectly honest, it confused the hell out of Tony, despite his nearly encyclopedic knowledge of New York gangs and their affiliations, rivalries, and activities. However, despite the confusion of their cause, Tony knew fanaticism when he saw it.

He had no doubt now that the man the victim had fought with the previous day was the murderer. The knife used to kill the victim had been of good-quality- not the best, but good enough to be a bit pricier than a typical household knife. One that only a _well-off_ man of the trade would've been able to afford. And it would've taken quite a bit of arm strength to punch even a very sharp knife through the nearly rock hard bone above the heart, strength that only a butcher, or someone with _very strong arms_, would have.

Tony looked over his notes one more time, making sure that he had everything, and then rose from his seat and strode confidently over to McGee's desk. The man looked up from the book he was reading and smiled lightly.

"Finally finished, Deputy?" He asked, amusement ringing through the nearly musical words as his bright green eyes danced.

Tony frowned in confusion. "Whaddya mean _finally?"_ He asked.

McGee simply smirked and nodded his head at the classroom. Tony turned, and blinked at the completely empty room.

"Where'd everybody go?" He asked, wincing as his voice pitched up in his surprise.

"Class began at seven o'clock, it is now almost ten, Deputy," McGee replied, laughing. "Well, let's see if you managed to solve a cold case in three hours."

Tony nodded and consulted his notes. Pretending that he was reporting to Gibbs, he outlined his conclusions about the case quickly and succinctly: the dockworker had been mistakenly believed to be a member of the Boodle Gang, notorious butcher cart hijackers, by one of the gang's victims, who happened to be a nativist and was inclined to believe the worst of the victim simply on principle. The Nativist had tracked down the victim and confronted him, resulting in the argument the day before the victim's death. However, the Nativist had refused to accept that he had been wrong, and had lured the victim to the docks and stabbed him through the heart with his best butcher knife.

McGee nodded and smiled grimly. "Completely correct, Deputy," he said quietly. "The murderer, one Trevor Cobb, was a well known and well respected butcher in the area and a loud and proud member of the Know-Nothing Party. The victim, Tommy O'Brian, had arrived from Ireland a year previous with exactly twenty cents in his pocket. Cobb tracked O'Brian down because he looked _marginally_ similar to the ringleader of the Boodle Gang, but he killed O'Brian because he was Irish." McGee sighed, looking terribly sad for a moment, before shaking his head and visibly hardening himself, a process that made Tony blink in surprise. But before he could say anything, McGee stuck his hand out. "Notes and casefile, please," he requested.

Tony handed them over, and McGee paged through the small notebook that the older man carried everywhere. "Handwriting's atrocious," he muttered.

"Thank you," Tony replied, shooting a beatific smile at the teacher. McGee scowled at him.

"That was _not_ a compliment, Deputy," McGee growled. He looked back down at the notebook. "Could do with some vocabulary expansion, seems to have a moderate grasp of basic grammar, eighth grade education, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," Tony replied. "That was as far as I got before I got sick of Davis trying to cram fairy tales down my throat. Walked out when I was twenty two, and Gibbs couldn't do a damn thing to stop me."

McGee tried to keep his stern teacher face on, but Tony could see a tiny twitch at the corner of the younger man's mouth that could have been a suppressed smirk.

"Be that as it may, Deputy, there is always room for improvement," he said blithely. "When did you begin schooling?"

"Fourteen, after Gibbs adopted me," Tony replied.

McGee blinked, obviously surprised. "That late? May I ask why?"

Tony shrugged. "Twelve of being pretty much ignored by my sleazebag of a father, then two years on the streets," he drawled. "Mama tried to get me to learn some letters before she died, but I was too young to keep up with them afterward, and _mio padre_ was too busy at the races to give a damn."

McGee nodded absently, and Tony was relieved to see that there was no pity in the younger man's face. "I know you're still completely fluent in Italian, and tolerably in English, are there any other languages that I should know about?" He asked.

"The family cook was from Mexico, taught me some Mexican Spanish," he said.

A dark brown eyebrow cocked up. "Impressive," McGee said simply, and Tony couldn't figure out if he was talking about the Mexican Spanish or the fact that he'd had a family cook.

McGee scribbled something in his own notebook before handing Tony's back. "Well, you're free to go," he said. "It's getting late, and don't you have morning shift tomorrow?"

Tony nodded frowning. "What about you? Ain't you comin'?"

"Not yet, I still have a few things I need to do around here before I lock up," McGee replied. He turned back to his desk, obviously expecting Tony to simply shrug and walk away.

And two months ago, Tony would have, but something made him stay and ask, "Can I help?"

"_May_ I help," McGee corrected absently. He blinked as Tony's words penetrated, and looked up at the tall foreman in shock. "You want to help? I would've thought you'd prefer to go home and go to sleep."

"You have to get up just as early as I do, McGee, and them kids don't deserve your morning grumpiness, which is goin' to be a lot worse if you gotta deal with me bein' bright eyed and bushy tailed," Tony retorted.

McGee still gaped, but quickly shook himself and snapped his mouth shut. "Well, most of what I need to finish is paperwork, but if you wouldn't mind giving the floor a quick sweep, that would be very helpful, thanks," he said hesitantly, and for a brief second, Tony saw the timid, beaten down young man he'd rescued from the snow two months ago.

"No problem," Tony replied with a grin, spotting a broom in the corner. He grabbed it and began sweeping, as McGee continued to scribble and mutter to himself.

Finally, McGee put his pen down and closed his notebook, reaching his arms up above his head to stretch. He quickly put his things away and stood, quickly tying his cravat and tucking it under his vest, and then shrugging into his frock coat. He wrapped himself up in his duster, tugged that G-d-awful gray cap onto his head, and nodded at Tony.

"Ready to go?" He asked.

"Yessir," Tony replied, tossing the broom back into the corner of the room. The floors had been swept sparkling at some point that evening, so Tony felt no shame in completely abandoning his work. The pair banked the coals in the stove, doused the kerosene lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and exited the building, Tony heading straight for the large dark shape that was his horse standing just beyond the schoolyard fence.

_"Oh, Ferrari, il mio destriero galante, il mio migliore amico, ho lasciato tutto da solo?"_ He called, jogging towards the large Quarter Horse. Ferrari, having been awoken from a rather pleasant nap by his rider's caterwauling, slowly lifted his head and snorted dismissively. _"Aw__, amico mio, non essere __così,"_ he groaned, slapping the horse good-naturedly on the shoulder. _"Non volevo lasciarti qui per tanto tempo. Prometto che ce la farò a voi__..."_ He checked the girth and bridle out of habit before looping the reins over his arm and yanking up the picket stake.

"Okay, McGee, we're ready to ride- where'd he go?" Tony blinked and glanced around, wondering if the late winter darkness had swallowed up the schoolteacher and if so, what on earth was he going to tell Gibbs? But he caught a glimpse of a dim bobbing light in the distance.

Tony mounted up and urged Ferrari into a canter after the light. He quickly caught up to find that McGee was making his slow but steady way through the half frozen slush that covered the packed dirt streets of the dark and silent town. He had no doubt that if he didn't stop the mad Irishman, the stubborn fool would probably walk all four miles back to the ranch.

"Hey, McGee!" He called, pulling Ferrari up alongside the younger man. "Tell me you ain't walkin' all the way back to the ranch by yourself, 'cause that's just plain bone-headed stupid!"

"Alright, I won't," McGee replied simply.

Tony gaped. "Ya can't walk out here by yourself McGee, it ain't safe! There's wolves and cougars and coyotes and bears, not to mention Apaches! You'd get yourself scalped!"

Even in the flickering lantern light, Tony could see McGee's dubious expression clear as day.

Tony growled to himself. "Fine, don't believe me," he said. "Just don't come cryin' to me when some cougar rips you to shreds 'cause you was stupid enough to go walkin' at night by yourself without even a knife to protect ya."

McGee simply shrugged, and continued walking. Tony sighed and swung down from Ferrari's saddle mid step, quickly falling into step beside the younger man, leading Ferrari by the reins.

They walked for the better part of an hour, the winter silence broken only by the clopping of Ferrari's hooves on the frozen dirt road. Tony kept sweeping his gaze from left to right and back, determined to catch any predators stalking them before they struck.

Finally, they made it to the ranch, and McGee accompanied Tony to the barn to take care of Ferrari. While Tony removed Ferrari's tack and rubbed the stallion down, McGee said hello to Nonna, Charger, and Diane, as well as Stephanie, a Mustang mare Tony and Gibbs had rescued a few years ago, and her colt, who they were calling "Bud". Gibbs hadn't yet decided if he wanted to sell Bud or not, but as Tony rubbed Ferrari down, he watched McGee rubbing Bud's face and ears and cooing softly at him in Irish, and saw that Bud's ears, normally turned down against himself and Gibbs, were perked interestedly in McGee's direction.

_Well, if McGee's gonna be a ranch hand, he's gonna need a horse that's up to the job,_ he thought absently. _Bud ain't given me and Boss the time of day, but he seems to like Probie okay. _

When Ferrari's red chestnut coat was nice and shiny, Tony gave him a pat on the shoulder and led him into his stall for the night. A pitchfork-ful of hay from the loft, and the tall stallion began chowing down.

"'Kay Probie, bedtime," Tony called. "Say goodnight to the nice horsie now."

McGee gave him a glare, but obediently gave Bud one last stroke down his forehead, and followed Tony out of the barn and into the ranch house.

* * *

><p><em>February 9, 1870<br>Roop's Point, Kansas_

_Law Offices of Hart and Lee_

Michelle Lee looked up from her paperwork as the door to her office opened, and her baby sister skipped in, a huge grin on her face.

"_Why hello there, little sister,"_ Michelle said in Chinese, wrapping her arms around Amanda and kissing the top of her head. _"Did you have a good time at school today?"_

"_Yes!"_ Amanda replied, beaming. _"Mr. McGee played his violin again, and Angela and Lily and I played dolls during dinner and recess!"_

Michelle smiled. _"So that's why you didn't come pestering me during dinner," _she teased. _"Did you have fun?"_

"_Yup!" _Amanda replied, giggling. _"Mr. McGee said that he was going to come visit us later."_

"_Oh? What for?"_ Michelle asked.

"_He didn't say,"_ Amanda murmured. _"I was good, I swear! I didn't do anything bad!"_

Michelle sighed and pulled her little sister into her lap. _"I'm sure you didn't, Mandy. We'll just have to see what he says."_

The little bell Allison had hung over the door to alert them to potential clients jingled merrily, and Amanda tensed in Michelle's lap.

"_Shhhh, it's okay, baby, that's probably Mr. McGee," _Michelle murmured. She got up and gently placed Amanda down on her chair. Smoothing her hair and clothes, she strode out into the main office, where Jimmy Palmer was standing awkwardly in front of the door, his somber black bowler hat clenched in his hands.

"Afternoon, Ms. Lee, ma'am," the physician's assistant said, smiling hesitantly.

"Jimmy, please, it's Michelle," Michelle sighed, smiling resignedly as she pecked her fiancée on the cheek. "We're getting married, darling, you're going to have to get used to calling me by my name."

"Jimmy!" Amanda shrieked, racing into the young man's arms and allowing him to lift her up and swing her around.

"Why hello there, Miss Mandy," he laughed. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I missed you!" Amanda replied, grinning. "I haven't seen you all week! Why don't you come over more often?"

"I'm sorry, little miss, Dr. Mallard's been keeping me quite busy," Jimmy replied sheepishly. "Besides, if I came over more often, your sister wouldn't get a bit of work done." He shot a hesitant smirk at Michelle, who tried to look severe in the face of his ridiculously waggling eyebrows, but couldn't stop the giggles from escaping.

A gentle knock sounded at the door, and Amanda squeaked in fear and buried her face in the shoulder of Jimmy's frock coat.

"Jimmy, please take Amanda back into my office while I go see who this is," Michelle said. Jimmy nodded and disappeared into the small room, whispering comfortingly to the little girl. Jimmy was the only man Amanda trusted enough to be left alone with, for which Michelle thanked G-d every day.

She opened the door to find Mr. McGee standing on the doorstep, gray cloth cap in hand, and a small smile on his face. "Ms. Lee?" He asked. "I'm Timothy McGee, your sister's teacher. I wanted to talk to you for a little bit about Miss Lee and how we might make her time in my classroom a bit more comfortable for her."

Michelle blinked, surprised. The last teacher had all but ignored Amanda, and when she'd angrily confronted the nasty old man about it, he'd brushed her off with a scowl and a scathing remark to the order of "I have no time for stupid mutes, Ms. Lee".

"Of course," she said quickly, suddenly aware that she was staring. "Do come in, please, Mr. McGee. Can I get you anything?"

"Just a place where the two of us and Miss Lee, if you wish her to join us, may talk for a bit," Mr. McGee replied with a kind smile. Michelle nodded and led the rather tall young man back to her office, where Jimmy and Amanda were playing some sort of game with their fingers. She opened her mouth to alert them to their presence, but stopped when she felt Mr. McGee's fingers brush her sleeve. She glanced up to see him studying her sister and her fiancée intently, with an unreadable, but somehow not frightening, expression on his face.

"I'll just make us a pot of tea, then," Michelle whispered, inching away towards the conference/break room, where she brewed a pot of the specialty tea she kept for long nights preparing for court. She returned with a tray loaded with the tea set her parents had managed to carry all the way from their tiny village in central China to find Mr. McGee sitting in Allison's chair and chatting with Jimmy, while Amanda watched with large dark eyes from Jimmy's lap. She lightly kicked the doorway to announce her presence, and blushed lightly when both men turned and smiled at her.

"I thought we could use some tea," she said quietly, placing the tray on her desk.

"Should I go?" Jimmy asked in a whisper.

"I would much prefer you to stay," Michelle answered. "You will be a member of our family soon, and I want you to know all that I do about Amanda. Here you are, Mr. McGee." She handed the teacher a cup of the tea, which he accepted with a murmured thanks.

"First of all, I want to make it quite clear that Miss Lee is not in any sort of trouble," Mr. McGee said with a gentle smile. "Rather, I'd like to know what I can do to help her be more comfortable and confident in my classroom."

Michelle and Jimmy exchanged glances, nonplussed. Michelle wasn't quite sure what to say- she was so used to having to fight Mr. Davis tooth-and-nail for even a tiny fraction of the attention they were getting right now that to actually be _asked_ what it was she wanted was overwhelming.

Mr. McGee chuckled. "Let me guess, you've never been directly asked what it is you want for your sister, have you, Ms. Lee?" He asked kindly.

Michelle nodded, blushing. "I'm afraid you're right, Mr. McGee," she said quietly. "Mr. Davis was never very receptive to Amanda's needs. In fact, he outright terrified her sometimes, and so she wouldn't say a single word the entire day while she was there. I know she was learning, she can read and perform more basic arithmetic than I knew at her age, but she never demonstrated it in the classroom."

Mr. McGee nodded. "She told me through Jared Vance that she'd been traumatized when she was younger, resulting in a deep-rooted fear of men," he said gently. "Did Mr. Davis remind her of that time?"

Michelle turned to Amanda, still curled up in Jimmy's lap. "Xiǎo mèimei, bìng zài xuéxiào de lǎoshī tíxǐng nǐ, shuí bǎ nǐ de huài nánrén?" She asked.

Amanda blinked at her, and nodded slowly. "Shì," she whispered.

Michelle turned back to Mr. McGee, who was staring at the both of them with an expression of utter fascination on his face. "Amanda says that you are correct, Mr. McGee," she said.

Mr. McGee blinked, and seemed to remember why he was there. "Well then, that's one problem solved," he said cheerfully, smiling. "Mr. Davis has officially retired, you won't be seeing him again, I don't think. I'm in charge now, and I would very much like to see Miss Lee regain her confidence and succeed the way I believe she can. Now the question is what can we do to facilitate that?"

Michelle sat back in her seat and carded her hand through Amanda's hair, thinking. She'd love for Mr. McGee to try and work with her one on one, with a third person in the room so that Amanda wasn't uncomfortable, of course (she absolutely just couldn't see the kind-almost-to-a-fault and gentlemanly Mr. McGee attempting or truly even thinking about doing anything inappropriate, and it surprised her how much more comfortable that made her feel). However, she'd heard from Allison, who'd in turn heard it from Miss Abby down the street, that the young man had his hands full trying not only to teach a classroom of children by himself, but he was also giving Julie Watson and Miss Abby lessons in some new alphabet that little Sandy was learning to read, as well as doing bookkeeping for three stores and the Sheriff's ranch. Michelle was afraid he just wouldn't have time to spare for Amanda.

When she hesitantly voiced this thought, Mr. McGee blinked his large green eyes at her for a second, before bursting into laughter.

"Ms. Lee, I believe that you are under the mistaken impression that I have every square inch of time tied up in Gordian knots," he said breathlessly. "Ma'am, one thing I've learned quite quickly about living here is that quite a lot of people understand the necessity of educating children, even if they don't have any of their own. As much as I dislike backing out of commitments, no one will think any less of me if I do so in order to make time for a struggling student. And even if they did think less of me for it, I would still do so, because I am first and foremost a schoolteacher, and my students are and will always be my first priority. Everything else is secondary."

Out of the corner of her eye, Michelle could see Jimmy staring at Mr. McGee in awe, and understood the feeling. She'd never met anyone so passionate about his occupation, and it relieved her to no end to know that Amanda was learning from someone who truly cared about his students.

They scheduled a weekly meeting time for Thursday afternoons, between three and four o'clock, during which time they would work on any class material Amanda was struggling with.

By the end of the meeting, even Amanda herself was chiming in, asking questions and making comments that seemed to surprise Mr. McGee in their insight and intelligence, although he hid it fabulously. She even shook his hand as he left, something Michelle thought she would never see.

"Thank you so much for this, Mr. McGee," Michelle said, shaking his hand as well.

"It's my pleasure, Ms. Lee," Mr. McGee replied, and Michelle could see quite clearly that it truly was.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ 

_Meyers Homestead_

Gibbs reined in his horse and studied the tiny single room shanty. Unlike the Watson place, which tried its best to look presentable despite its shabbiness, the Meyers place was falling apart at the seams. It really was no wonder that Kody spent all of his time fixing this place up rather than at school.

Although he tried not to show it, his discussion with McGee on Monday had given him quite a lot to think about. The kid was right, dammit, nobody had ever tried to sit the boy down and _ask_ him how he wanted to be helped. They'd all assumed that they knew what was best for Kody, and then punished him when he tried to show them that what they'd put in place wasn't working.

McGee was also right in that it was probably too late in Kody's book- the kid probably wouldn't listen to him at this point. Which Gibbs understood, now that McGee had spelled it out for him: nobody had listened to Kody when he'd needed them to, so now Kody wouldn't listen to anybody.

But he had to try, at least. Gibbs couldn't stand the churning in his gut that resulted from him knowing something and not doing anything about it. He swung down from Charger and picketed him a few feet away in a nice patch of prairie grass, shoved away his uncertainty, and knocked on the door.

"_Go the hell away, ya'll get yer money when I got it!"_ Hollered a young male voice, hoarse with drink.

"This ain't the bank, Kody, it's Sheriff Gibbs," Gibbs called, his spirits sinking already. "Open the door, son."

The door opened slowly, a wary brown gaze glaring at Gibbs. "What'chu want?" The teen demanded.

Gibbs fought the urge to cock an eyebrow. "Kody, is your pa home?" He asked simply.

"What's it matter?" Kody shot back.

Gibbs sighed. Caginess wasn't gonna work here, he had to remember that. "Just wanna help ya out, Kody," he said simply. "Can I come in?"

Kody hesitated, then opened the door wider and stepped away. Gibbs went inside and carefully shut the thin plank of wood, lest if fall off of its old, worn out leather hinges. Kody stood off to the side, and Gibbs turned to study the boy, whom he hadn't seen all winter.

The lad was skinny, was the first observation he made. He wasn't malnourished (yet), but like McGee had been when he'd first arrived, Kody hadn't been eating nearly enough to maintain a healthy weight for a boy his age. His clothes were also in a very sorry state, nearly falling apart at the seams, threadbare, stained, and ripped in a multitude of places. His hair was dirty and matted, pulled back into a messy horsetail that nearly reached down to his shoulders, and his hands were dirty and scarred. The entire shack smelled like booze, and not in the pleasant way that Ziva's barroom did.

"Well?" Kody demanded, teeth bared in a snarl. "Ya gonna stand there and stare at me, or ya gonna say what ya wanna say and get the hell out? I ain't got time to waste on ya right now, Sheriff."

Gibbs blinked. "You eaten today, son?"

Kody was brought up short, bloodshot brown eyes blinking rapidly. "Huh?"

"You eaten today?"

A fierce scowl. "What's it to you?"

Gibbs leveled his gaze at the boy. "I wanna talk, but we can't do that on empty stomachs. C'mon, we'll put it on my tab."

Kody hesitated again, but a quick glance at the corner of the shack that served as a "kitchen" seemed to convince him, because he grabbed a tattered linen cap and yelled out, "Pa, goin' out!"

The reply was a slurred conglomeration of various obscenities, some of which Gibbs was pretty sure the old man had made up. Kody simply rolled his eyes, and led Gibbs out the door. The older rancher paused to take Charger off the picket line, and then the three ambled along the half-mile dirt track that linked the Meyers homestead with the town itself.

Roop's Point was bustling, ranch owners and ranch hands and freelance cowboys looking for winter work until herding season began again. Gibbs cut his way through the crowds easily, Kody hot on his tail. They entered David's Saloon and found a quiet table in the corner near the huge stone fireplace. Gibbs motioned for Kody to sit and told him, "Stay put."

He made his way to the bar, where Ziva was whirling around, filling drinks and exchanging plates as fast as patrons could empty them. "_Shalom_, Sheriff Gibbs!" She called, tossing a grin his way with a swish of her skirts.

"Howdy, Miss Ziver," Gibbs replied, returning her grin with a smirk of his own. "You got time for a shot of bourbon and a cider?"

"For you, Gibbs, any time!" Ziva laughed. "Wait one moment, _bevakasha_."

Gibbs nodded and made himself comfortable, leaning against the bar. The saloon was hopping this afternoon, nearly every table and every seat at the bar was occupied with drinking, smoking, laughing patrons enjoying the lunch time break.

Gibbs was startled out of his perusal of the dining room by the dull clunk of two glasses impacting the solid wood of the bar, along with the rattle of two tin plates loaded with several strips of beef jerky and stewed carrots.

"Thanks Ziver, this looks mighty tasty," Gibbs said, tipping his hat to the landlady before grabbing the food and drinks and making his way back to the table.

Kody was still there, much to Gibbs's hidden relief, and he handed the teenager a plate and the glass of cider without a word. Kody accepted them silently as well, and immediately tucked in. Gibbs followed suit, sipping his bourbon thoughtfully.

"All right, Sheriff Gibbs, what the hell am I doin' here?" Kody growled finally, pushing his plate away and leaning forward on his forearms.

Gibbs sat back, fingering his glass. "Thought we could have a chat. Man to man."

Kody snorted. "Since when have _you_ treated me like a man?"

"If ya'd start actin' like one, I would!" Gibbs shot back.

Kody snarled, and Gibbs had to fight to keep his temper under control. Damnit, he hadn't done this to fight with the kid!

Gibbs sighed. "Look, Kody, I don't want to fight with ya. I'm just worried about ya."

"Well don't be, I can take care of myself," Kody said stubbornly.

"I don't doubt that, son, but there are times when it's okay to let someone else take the reins for a while," Gibbs replied easily. "Even I need help managing everything I do, that's why I got Deputy DiNozzo and Mr. McGee."

"Who the hell said I needed any help?" Kody growled.

Gibbs's simply cocked an eyebrow at him, and a very slight pink tinge of embarrassment suffused the boy's sallow complexion.

"I'm helpin' my pa," the teenager grumbled, averting his eyes.

"Son, you're not helpin' your pa, you're his slave," Gibbs said bluntly, ignoring the shocked, wide eyed expression on the boy's face. "Your pa has no right to ask you to pull the amount of weight you've been pullin' for him. He bought the ranch you're fightin' like hell to keep, he's responsible for it. Now, I ain't sayin' you shouldn't be pullin' your own weight 'round the place, but ya shouldn't be the one doin' _all_ the work, on top of keepin' the house and keepin' yourself and your pa fed. That's too much work for a single person to deal with, especially a young man who needs to go to school."

"School's a waste of time," Kody grumbled, scraping his spoon around his plate. "M'too stupid for it.

"Is that what ya tell yourself, or what your pa tells you?" Gibbs asked.

Kody simply shrugged, and Gibbs smirked.

"So, how do you know you're stupid if you don't even try?" He asked, standing and stretching. "Chew on that for a while, son. If you wanna try, come by the Sheriff's office tomorrow morning, and we'll talk to Mr. McGee. If not, the offer still stands. You okay to get home by yourself?"

Kody nodded, his scowl softening into a pensive expression, and Gibbs smiled. He'd have to remember to tell McGee to expect the teenager in the classroom on Monday.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Translations<em>**

_Oh, Ferrari, il mio destriero galante, il mio migliore amico, ho lasciato tutto da solo?_**_= Oh Ferrari, my gallant steed, my best friend, did I leave you all alone?_**

_Aw, amico mio, non essere così_**_= Aw, my friend, do not be so_**

_Non volevo lasciarti qui per tanto tempo. Prometto che ce la farò a voi= **I did not want to leave you here for so long. I promise I'll make it up to you**_

_Xiǎo mèimei, bìng zài xuéxiào de lǎoshī tíxǐng nǐ, shuí bǎ nǐ de huài nánrén?= **Little sister, did the teacher at school remind you of the bad men who took you?**_

_Shì= **yes**_

* * *

><p><span><em><strong>Author's Note<strong>__**: 11/16/2013- Made some edits to a couple of dates.**_


End file.
